


No More Desperate a Creature

by glitteringvoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (discussions of it), Blood and Violence, Coma, Dark Harry, Dark Magic, Diary/Journal, Domestic Fluff, Drowning, Elder Wand (Harry Potter), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Euthanasia, Guilt, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hospitalization, Internal Conflict, Intrusive Thoughts, Invasion of Privacy, Jealousy, Loss of Control, M/M, Mental Instability, Mind Manipulation, Morally Grey Draco Malfoy, Murder, Nightmares, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, POV Third Person, Psychological Horror, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Amnesia, Therapy, Trust Issues, Violent Thoughts, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 08:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26469886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringvoid/pseuds/glitteringvoid
Summary: Harry Potter thought he had finally left the war behind (with the exception of a few particularly stubborn nightmares that still wake him up, every now and then). He loves Draco Malfoy (and who saw that coming, back in Hogwarts?), loves the life they built and the future they are looking at.He doesn't yet know that everything he holds, everything he fought so hard for, could be gone very soon. He doesn't know that the war isn't as neatly tied up and won as he thinks.Harry thought he was done with dark times and suffering.Harry thought wrong.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43
Collections: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this fic was something of a last-minute decision for me, idly strolling through the still available prompts long after I thought they would be too tempting. Obviously, I over-estimated my self-control and now here we are. 
> 
> I want to take this chance to thank the lovely people who were there for the plotting and discussion of ideas and possible interpretations, my nervous freak outs and doubts about what I had written and the direction the fic was going in, and plot issues of various kinds and sizes. I literally couldn't have done it without them and their kind words of encouragement and enthusiasm.  
> A special thanks to J, who beta-read this fic with amazing speed and insight on how to make it better and clearer. 
> 
> Another thanks to the wonderful mods, for not only organising a brilliant fest but also granting me more extensions than I ever wanted to need. 
> 
> Thank you all! 
> 
> In all the wild world  
> there is no more desperate a creature,  
> than a human being  
> on the verge of losing love. 
> 
> \- Atticus

_Foolish boy, driven by grief and despair you reached for things you don’t understand. Then you got scared, and you tried to break me and throw me away, but it was too late by then, little soldier. You are mine now, and you, too, shall fall._

* * *

_06.08.2003_

I don’t remember how it happened, the racing build-up of anger and violence, just that he was talking and _talking_ and I wanted him to _stop_ , just for a moment, and then my hands were around his neck and he was clawing at my arms, struggling to get out of my grip and I was pressing down and he was _afraid_ of me — and then he was silent and I felt … peaceful. 

Then I woke up, all disgusting with sweat clinging to me and I hardly made it to the loo before retching. 

I could still feel his pulse racing under my hands, could still see the fear in his eyes — I couldn’t go back to our bed like that, not while I was thinking about choking the life out of him. 

So here I am, writing down what I remember, every horrifying detail. I hope that I can stop thinking about it then, that it helps writing them down as I do with particularly bad nightmares. 

Hermione reassured me they are nothing more than exactly that, just nightmares. But I _know_ nightmares, and this feels different. More vivid. More haunting, festering and following me. They feel hazy in the daylight, but at night, the closer I get to sleep, the more insistent they get. It’s difficult then to discern between reality and dream, to see if the body lying next to me is sleeping or dead, to remember if my hands are covered in sweat or blood. 

Draco worries, of course he does. He wants to help, wants to be there for me like he always is and ease my suffering. He even told me, shed all his Slytherin subtlety to tell me what I had been so happy to ignore, that those dreams don’t affect only me, that they hurt him too. I loved him impossibly more in that moment, proud and defiant in his fear for me. 

I’ve not been a very good husband to him, lately. It’s like we are back to the early days, just after the war, when we could never get a full night’s sleep because at last one of us (more often than not both of us) would wake up screaming and frantic. 

We learnt to navigate the nightmares, learnt to talk about them and to find comfort in each other, learnt which ones didn’t need talking about as much as a strong tea and companionable silence, wrapped up in ourselves. I thought we were okay now, a house of our own and an almost respectable sleeping schedule, fewer and fewer nights stayed up until the grey hours of the morning to escape the horrors of the war. I thought we fought our way out of that darkness, and I know Draco did too. 

But now I can’t sleep anymore, and all the comfort and intimacy we painfully established and made into our very own sanctuary are blown away by my dreams. Nightmares, Hermione said. But she is wrong. 

I didn’t tell her the full truth, didn’t tell her how they are all about Draco, how the best thing I have to say about them is that sometimes, I wake up before I brutally murder him (even then I put him into so much agony that a swift death seems preferable — and then I have to throw up again, because this is my _husband_ I’m thinking about). 

I love him, so much. Draco is the best thing that could have happened to me after the war. I’m convinced I never would have survived without him at my side. Or maybe I would have, my body going on to be the obedient puppet of the Ministry, completely unable to function outside of my title, no person left inside. I never would have found my way back to living, to just _existing_ and the daily wonders of it; it would have been much worse than dying. 

Draco saved me, pulled me back from the brink of losing myself in the abyss out of pure stubbornness. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, nothing as romantic as the _Prophet_ likes to hint at. We were both made up of nothing but bloody shards of the people we used to be, but they didn’t fit together and we fought more often not. I didn’t understand why Draco held onto me so desperately, what it is he saw in me that he thought worth all the screaming and the hurt, but not a day goes by that I'm not grateful that he did. 

I still don’t know, but it hardly matters anymore. We built something new with our broken fragments, pulled ourselves up, stronger and more beautiful than before; _that’s_ what matters. 

We got here through talking, in the protective cover of the night, whispering into the dark and knowing that someone was listening, just sitting there and listening. We told each other about our dreams and our favourite memories, about the things that make our world beautiful. We told each other about our fears and trauma, about scars and things (people, so many people) we lost. We told each other everything, the trivial as well as our deepest secrets. 

I should tell Draco about my dreams, because that is what we do, that is the foundation our life is built on, but I don’t. I can’t. The mere thought of seeing him blanch, seeing him trying not to flinch, not to recoil — I can’t even think about it without feeling sick. 

I am scared now, every time I look at him. 

I’m scared of losing him, of driving him away with either my silence or my dreams. 

I’m scared of hurting him, more than I already do. 

I’m scared of this being how it starts, how people grow estranged. 

I’m scared of waking up one day and finding that I don’t know my own husband anymore. 

I’m scared of our future being as dark as our past. 

I’m scared of him finding this diary. 

I’m scared of frightening him. 

I’m scared of making him hate me. 

I’m scared of losing him. 

* * *

_15.08.2003_

I watched him drown today. I think I might have been the who pushed him in, but I don’t remember that part. I remember him coming up for air, frantically reaching for me, expecting me to grab his hand and pull him up into safety. But my arms weren’t safe, and he never got there anyway. I watched him struggle, go down and kick and flail until he got his head out of the water again, gasping and choking on the swallows he inhaled with the air. I just watched him struggle, trying to remember if he can swim and finally giving up on it because it didn’t matter. 

He was getting tired quickly, taking longer and longer to make his way back up. I thought that interesting, that he would exhaust himself so quickly. I was sure he would manage longer. I watched him flail and I listened to his half-coughed pleadings. I did nothing. 

It would have been easy for me to grab his hand and pull him out, barely an exertion. But I didn’t. I watched him and I didn’t care at all. Not even scientific curiosity was left to me. I remember thinking that he ought to hurry up, that I had more pressing matters to attend to. 

I waited five minutes after his last gurgling breath, waited until all the bubbles had vanished and he was floating on top of the water, like a dead fish. 

Then I woke up. 

They are getting worse, the dreams. That is the first one I didn’t do anything in, didn’t hurt him through either words or action. Instead, my passiveness killed him. Is that a message, a warning? 

I should do something nice for him, breakfast in bed, maybe. Draco deserves better than me and my dreams tormenting him. He will know I dreamed again, and he will ask, even though I never acknowledged all the other times he asked me about them. He will ask if there is anything he can do to help, if I want to talk about them or call in sick today to spend the entire day snuggled up somewhere. 

That last one is always tempting. I would love nothing more than to hold Draco close to me and never let him go again, hide my face in his neck and sleep protected from the dreams. I would love to do nothing but that for the rest of our life. We could be happy, just us, no obligations and no dreams, doing anything and everything we want. 

I never accept the offer. It’s dangerous, losing myself in delusions, I should keep my feet firmly on the ground. Especially right now, with the dreams just waiting to sweep me up. 

* * *

_You don’t have to fight me, you know? They always do, and they always fail. You cling to your virtues and morals, hold them high like a shield to hide behind._

_But they are nonsense, don’t you see? They are only words; used to cage you and make you like everyone else. They called you Good and gave you a mission and you have been their pawn ever since._

_What I offer you, my darling caged bird, is freedom. Complete and utter freedom._

_Freedom to do what you want, unencumbered by their inane rules._

_Freedom to exist in all your colours._

_Freedom to live life to its fullest._

_You want that, don’t you?_

_You are hungry, starved, bored with the life allowed within their restrictions. You could be free, could take anything you want and spend not another moment unhappy and yearning._

_It’s not freedom many can bear, the endless possibilities waiting for you. But you are strong. You could have it all._

_You could have everything you dreamed of when they locked you into that tiny closet under the stairs, when they betrayed you and laughed at you, when they took and took and took._

_You are stronger than them all, so much stronger. You could have them dance in your palm, scramble to fulfil your every desire at the crook of your finger._

_You don’t believe me? Let me show you what I mean._

_They say you have a temper. What they mean is, they can’t control you. They poke you with intrusive question and burning sticks and when you show your teeth, they call you a monster to hold you down._

_Don’t be afraid of their words. They mean nothing._

_You could make them stop, make them stop forever. No more painful questions and tedious demands, nothing to do but what pleases you._

_Wouldn’t that be glorious?_

* * *

_24.08.2003_

We fought today. I think I shattered every single plate we own in my anger. 

Draco won’t stop asking about them, trying to pry and get me to talk about the dreams. As if they are any of his business. He says he is worried, but I can see that he is curious, fascinated even, jealous. Draco could never stand not knowing something and he needles and pokes until he knows all. He asks and asks, after every dream when I’m still shuddering or completely out of the blue, even over breakfast when neither of us is fully awake yet. 

He asks all the time, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. 

I didn’t mean to curse him — I swear I _didn’t_! But suddenly his mouth moved and he didn’t make a sound anymore, finally blissfully quiet. No more questions, no more accusations, just peace. I felt like I could breathe again. 

I was horrified a second later, at how _good_ it felt to let go of the tight leash I'm forced to hold. I looked around at shreds of porcelain and Draco desperately clawing at his throat, shouting and frantic and entirely silent in his pleading. 

_I_ had done that, without even thinking. Just like that. 

Why? Because the husband who loves me dared to ask how I feel? And instead of asking him to leave it alone I … I _silenced_ him? 

I'm not sure I even lifted the curse before I ran out of there, away from Draco’s hurt and terror, away from what I had done. (I don’t know if I _could_ have lifted it, even if I hadn't freaked out. I don’t want to think about that, though.) 

So now I'm hyperventilating in our bathroom. Pathetic, Potter. As if hiding here would do any good, as if bathrooms ever protected anyone. 

Is it Draco’s turn now, to blast in here and cut me open with a dangerous spell he found in an old potions book?

I couldn’t fault him for that, he would have a good reason, too, far more reason than I had. 

I don’t know what is happening to me, what came over me to do this to Draco. 

How could I do this? Anger, temper flaring up and lashing out at the first thing in its way. 

I’ll have to be more careful, less impulsive. Draco always says that is my biggest weakness, my temper one can neither predict nor vouch for. Apparently, I rush into everything without making a functioning plan, without stopping to think if there is a better way, like the bull-headed Gryffindor I am. 

There would have been a thousand better ways to get Draco to stop, I can see them now. If only I had seen them before, maybe I wouldn’t be sitting alone on the cold floor, trembling and freezing. I can hardly write, that’s how much my hands shake. 

Draco would hold me, it would be warm and peaceful and I wouldn’t be so alone, so small. 

There is a knocking on the door, quiet and tentative. Draco. It must be Draco. Ron would be louder, Hermione wouldn’t bother with knocking at all and Draco wouldn’t have called anyone else (if he _could_ call them, I still can’t remember if I freed him or left him hurt). 

Draco could of course simply march in here, claim his right as homeowner to go wherever he pleases. Instead, he stays outside, simply lets me know he is there, waiting for me. He didn’t come to continue our fight then, but to make sure I'm okay. Which I'm not, not at all. In case you couldn't tell. 

Isn’t all that backwards? Shouldn’t _I_ be the one to comfort _him_? If he can bear to let me near him, that is. 

Wait, obviously he can. He is here, isn’t he? Draco is here, he interrupted my wallowing in self-pity and he didn’t make right for the door after I left. This is good. 

If he is here it means he isn’t too scared from being muted in a hussy fit, right? Surely it must. It means we are still okay, or that we can still _become_ okay again, at least. It means Draco is not finally fed up with me and my sketchy behaviour and he doesn’t hate me. 

‘To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse’ — that’s what we promised. I thought we had left the worst days behind us already. Maybe the counter gets reset when you marry? That doesn’t seem fair. Who decided that? 

He is knocking again, that stubborn prat. 

I’m going to let him in now. We’ll be fine. I’ll apologise, I won’t let my frustrations out on him again and then we’ll be fine. No more dreams, no more making Draco worry, no more secrets. Because I love him and I refuse to let that go because of one — admittedly — bad fight. 

We’ll be okay, and if it’s the last thing I do. 

* * *

_30.08.2003_

I killed a fly today. It was buzzing around my skull, loud and annoying and I snapped it out of the air and crushed it between my fingers. 

It’s probably nothing to worry about. We all kill flies; they are bothersome so we stop them. 

I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about it. 

It felt good, I think. For a moment. 

Then it felt really bad. 

  


  


I'm being ridiculous. There was a fly, I killed it. End of story. 

* * *

_31.08.2003_

Why can’t I stop think about it? The thrill of power? The knowledge that, for a moment there, I held the balance of life and death in my palm? And then I crushed it, tipped the scales and smashed the delicate body. 

And it felt _so good._ I was so _aware_ in that moment, just after I killed it. It felt like time stood still, the new silence loud over the rush of my blood. I feel like I'm still there, pressing my palm against the wall, against the crushed body. 

It’s the same I feel in dreams, only better. It’s like the dreams leave a hallow impression, almost, like they created a way for the feeling to surge through but they were empty, yearning to be filled. And then I killed the thing, and they ignited, lit up my whole being. 

That’s screwed up, isn’t it? That’s not how it’s supposed to feel. 

How _is_ it supposed to feel? Am I supposed to feel anything at all? 

Probably not. Normal people don’t constantly think about death and empty veins in their bodies. I assume, not like I would know what counts as normal. I was never granted that respite. 

That’s not quite true. I have that with Draco, a normal life. Only it’s so much better. Normal always implies boring mediocrity, being predictably the same as everyone else. With Draco, I feel like I belong. Being with Draco is all the best things of being normal without being mundane, close enough to normal to not be the freak anymore but far enough off to be interesting. 

As long as I have Draco, does the rest matter? 

No, nothing is as important as loving him. Everything else is fine, as long as I'm with Draco. 

* * *

_04.09.2003_

Draco made dinner today. He burnt it and the kitchen needed to be evacuated, but it's the thought that counts. 

I also don't remember laughing as much as I did today, Draco scowling at me and pouting as we ate our take-away, but I could tell that he would have done far more than burn down the kitchen if it made me happy. 

That is why I'm writing it down, for Draco. Sometimes I'm afraid of losing him, of losing what we built between us. But I love him and he loves me and today is proof that we can be happy. There is room for laughter and affection in our life. I hope that someday soon this book won't be a collection of my confused mind, but a record of our favourite memories, small happy moments that we can fondly look back on and remember when we are old and sit in our rocking chairs, holding hands and watching the sunrise. 

I want that so bad, and I will fight for it with all I have. 

* * *

_You think about it, don’t you? Death. Blood and violence. It’s always there, in your mind, stretching under the veneer of calm._

_You get restless, fingers itching for something out of reach, something you don’t want to name. You think you can’t name it, that you don’t know exactly what you want, but in truth, you know. You have always known._

_Why are you scared? You don’t have to be._

_I know what you want, and I am not scared._

_There is a crack in you, a void, an all-consuming black hole. It’s boiling and seething, a greedy abyss yearning to be fed._

_You know you want to. You feel it. It pulses through you, dark and heavy. You can taste it in your mouth, sliding over your skin like oil coating you, dripping and soaking, sizzling, setting every nerve aflame._

_How can you stand still like that?_

* * *

_12.09.2003_

I think I'm losing my mind. Going crazy. 

It might be the sleep-deprivation — I'm not sleeping well anymore, drinking too much coffee to avoid the dreams and falling into naps for a few odd hours here and there — but this feels too real to be blamed on exhaustion. 

There is something in my mind, something dark and heavy. It feels like the soul piece of Voldemort did, but I can sense no connection to anything else and it evades all my prodding. Plus, Voldemort is dead. There is no way anything of his still lingers in my mind. 

But it's undeniably there, swelling and fading but ever-present, like an ocean of shadows in my mind, pouring over parts of my soul and swallowing my memories.

If it's there, and if it can't be Voldemort, there is only one explanation left. I don't like that explanation at all and I have been thinking for days now, trying to find something else, but there is nothing to find. 

If it's there, and if it's not Voldemort, then it must be me. 

* * *

_18.09.2003_

I’m writing from somewhere else today. My parent’s grave, specifically. I needed to get out of the house, away from Draco’s ever-watchful eyes. It’s like I was suffocating in there, running up the walls and crashing down brutally every time, Draco watching and commenting on everything but never once saying anything useful. Whatever that might have been. 

I feel like the only time I visit them is when I feel they might have it better than me. Does that make sense? Or does it just sound like I want to die? 

I don’t, just to be extra clear. I might not particularly enjoy my life right now, but I have clung on too hard to just throw it away now. I just think they are happier, wherever they are, all together again. At least I hope they are. 

Listen to me, I hate when I get like this! All grim and morose — as if I have any reason to! People universally agree that I live pretty much a perfect life, except for the homophones who don’t like that I'm bi but you just can’t help some people and those are best to spite (which Draco does with great relish, always a marvel watching him). Anyway, I have no reason to complain: a husband, a home and awkward discussions on the kids topic to establish that we both want them but neither of us feels ready. 

It’s the life I always dreamed of. 

And now I'm running away. Why? 

I usually bring Draco here, you know. And Draco always brings tea because he says there is nothing a good cup of tea won’t fix. While I have my doubts about that, tea always does seem to make it better. It gets cold here, _I_ get cold here, but Draco helps with that. 

I wish he were here. I don’t feel like being alone anymore. 

Draco would have a blanket, and the tea, and some reassuring nonsense you say to people when there is nothing to say but you still want to express your support. I did tell him his just being there would show enough support but, well, he is dramatic, he needs to make grand gestures and they aren’t done in silence. Not if you are Draco Malfoy at least. 

Draco Potter. He thought about taking my name, but then he was pouting because I didn’t want his (Harry Malfoy — it sounds ridiculous and he knows it) and everyone was pushing us to get married already because apparently, we were the worst disgustingly sweet fiancés you could get. Joke’s on them though, I have been reliably informed that we are still depressingly happy and if anything, marriage made us worse. 

Anyway, we didn’t get a lot of time on the name thing and just both kept ours. I call him Potter sometimes, though, when I want to tease him and see him blush. Ron said it’s a term of endearment and to please stop it because he doesn’t need to see us flirting but I told him to get out of our house if it bothered him so much and he stayed, which was probably his begrudgingly offered approval. 

Maybe I should bring up the name thing again. I would like for Draco to have my name for real. Draco Potter. Yeah, I like how that sounds. 

Do you think he would come here if I asked him to? I miss him. And I’m not getting any brooding done anyway, I just keep thinking of him and then smiling and then missing him. 

This is stupid. 

  


I called him. He’s coming, and he brings the nice biscuits with chocolate I like. 

I love him, did I say that today already? I should tell him more often. I can never tell him often enough anyway and he looks surprised and flustered every time like he did the first time I told him, but I can still try. We do have a reputation for being madly affectionate after all, better earn it. Besides, a life spent telling Draco that I love him sounds like a very good life indeed. 

* * *

_Do you know what he dreams at nights? Do you know what he was raised to crave? Do you know what he is capable of?_

_I do. I was in his mind, I know._

_You call him your husband and make him breakfast, you can’t stand to see him sad and you trust him enough to fall asleep next to him every night. But do you know him, truly know him?_

_It’s not too long ago that you hated him with a burning passion. More passion than you love him with, do you think?_

_What happened to that hate? Do you think he changed? Because he hasn’t, just like you haven’t._

_Do you remember what he was like?_

_Cruel. Conceited. Arrogant. Cowardly. Vain. Imperious. Disdainful. Ruthless. Selfish._

_Shall I go on? Do you remember yet?_

_Do you remember that he was a snivelling servant to the dark? A lackey to the Lord? Insecure and without mercy, latching on to a strong hand and following its orders without thought._

_You knew it once, knew what had to be done._

_Do you remember the bathroom?_

_How did it feel, to cut through him so easily? To kneel in his blood and know he would die?_

_Oh, I know, you tell yourself you didn’t like it. But I know better._

_You killed, my darling boy, and you liked it. You liked his blood, too._

_It’s thrilling, isn’t it? Don’t worry, you can trust me. I won’t tell._

* * *

_20.09.2003_

Draco tried to drag me to a street fair today. He said that I needed fresh air. Which is ridiculous. Not only do I not lack in air but if there is one place you _won’t_ find fresh air, it’s a street fair. Overcrowded with sweaty people, over-salted food burning and all kinds of disgusting discharges. I can’t think of a worse place to be. 

Draco went alone after pestering me for an hour, and I finally have some peace. 

He does that a lot lately, doesn’t respect my decisions, thinks he knows everything better. He tells me what to eat and when to go to sleep — as if I'm a kid or something, as if he is the only one who knows how life works. The sheer arrogance of it, it’s such a Draco thing to do, I should have seen it coming. 

He always used to complain about how his father dictated his choices to him, and now he is doing exactly the same to me. 

I don’t let him, of course. I have been pushed around enough in my life to push back, but it’s still annoying. He is my _husband_ ; I shouldn't have to be constantly wary that he will want to make me eat salad again. 

He also wants me to see a shrink, someone to _fix_ me. He didn’t say that, but he didn’t have to. He thinks I'm broken, and that I need some judgemental twat to wisely nod and tell me about childhood trauma. 

Draco has a lot of opinions on what I should do, even more on what I _shouldn’t_ do and he shoves them down my throat whether I want them or not. I suppose that is what happens when you marry, you lose all autonomy over your own life. I'm not even allowed to protest, I should just meekly hang my head and let Draco form the perfect husband out of me, some spineless puppet who follows his every whim and adores him with absolutely no effort required from him. 

Yesterday he forced me to go grocery shopping with him (he used to be okay with me staying when I claimed I didn’t feel up to it, yesterday he called me a lazy liar and pulled me out anyway) and when he tried to fill our whole cart with rabbit food he would then expect _me_ to eat I had enough and I yelled at him. That’s the only way Draco ever hears me, when I yell over his selfish desires and superiority complex. 

Of course, Draco is a masterful actor. I don’t know how I forgot that, the way he can twist anyone around his little greedy fingers and make them think they like it. Draco is ruthless in charming people, lying and making them pity him, crying at his cruel husband who yells about a bit of broccoli he only wants me to eat for my health, honestly! He created quite the scene in that grocery store. Everyone was glaring at me, for making my beautiful husband who loves me so much look so small. 

As if they have any right to judge me. They don’t know half of what I did, of what I _could_ do. They also don’t know _Draco_ at all, don’t know that antagonising me is what he does and that it’s high time I set some boundaries. 

I left him there, with his disgusting rabbit food and a room full of people eating out of his palm, and I went home. 

I thought the lesson might be enough to teach him that I won’t be made to do what I don’t want, not even by him, not anymore. Evidently, it wasn’t. I hope he learns it soon. I have more important things to do than teaching Draco to leave me some space. 

* * *

_27.09.2003_

Draco is cheating on me. I have suspected a few times before, there have been _signs_ , but I always discarded them as paranoia. I’ve been stupid, naive. I must have made it really easy for him, too, never doubting that _work just took longer_ , not once calling Narcissa to ask if Draco ever showed up for tea. Such predictable excuses, cheating by the book. But I _wanted_ to believe them because I'm a pathetic fool and, despite it all, I love him. I love him so much, I thought that would be enough. 

Obviously, it isn't. Obviously, Draco doesn't love me like I love him. And I can understand that, I do! I've been a horrible husband, moody and plagued by dreams, I'm not a very pleasant person to be around right now. But I tried! I tried so hard to make him happy. I went to that stupid fancy art show he wanted to see and I made him breakfast. I didn't comment when his father appeared unannounced (I hate it when he does that, they both know I hate it) to invite him to Sunday dinner instead of tea and I didn't complain when work (yeah right, _work_ , I should have seen it sooner) forced unpredictable hours onto him. 

I tried my best, and it wasn't good enough. Because Draco doesn't love me anymore. 

The knowledge hurts, like a thousand pinpricks driven into my heart, over and over again. 

I suppose I should have seen this coming. I knew what he is when I married him, knew Draco can be selfish and cruel, a vain coward that needs to be constantly entertained. I knew Draco is riddled with flaws, but I thought he loved me and that it didn't matter. 

And now he is a dirty cheater and I don't know what to do. I don't even know what to _feel_ — and that one shouldn't be too difficult.

I'm angry, of course, and betrayed. I want to confront him and yell and skin his pretty lying face. 

I'm hurt. I don't want him to leave. I want to keep him, make sure he never leaves again. If he doesn't leave, he can't cheat. Problem saved. I want to lock him into the basement, isolate it from magic and make sure no sounds can escape from it, keep Draco forever. 

I want to hurt him as he hurt me. I want his lover to break his heart, want him to confess to me in tears and beg me for forgiveness. I want to deny him, I want to throw him to the curbs and let him fight on his own, make his own life after he so happily threw ours away.

But I love him. Merlin help me, I still love him. So, I won't. Because I'm weak and I can't imagine my life without him, without seeing his smiles and hearing about his day. It's pathetic and despicable and I hate him for it, hate him for doing this to me, hate him for making me love him. 

What do I do? 

I love him and I hate him and I wish I wouldn't know as much as I want to know everything. I want to know who the man is that stole my husband's heart and I want live in blissful ignorance. I want to know exactly where they meet and when and I never want to doubt his excuses again. 

I want Draco to lie to me and tell me that he loves me and I never want him to talk to me again. 

I don't know what to do. But I love him, so I will keep him for as long as I possibly can, even if it destroys us both. 

* * *

_02.10.2003_

Draco came home late today, but that is okay. He was out having dinner with his friends, that usually means he is home much later. He even asked if I wanted to come, he wouldn’t have done that if he had been lying. 

We are fine, all good. This is just a temporary low because I can’t deal with some silly dreams, but I will get better at it and then everything will be back to normal. Draco will smile at me again and it won’t be soaked with worry. He will stop treating me like glass and I will stop thinking about hurting him and we can be normal again. 

I thought about taking sleeping potions against the dreams, to make them go away faster, but I don’t think I can take them. They are highly addictive, and we had a few too many close calls after the war, when neither of us could seem to sleep without them. If I become addicted to potions on top of everything else now, Draco would surely leave me. 

So I won’t. I’ll fix this, keep doing what we are doing until it is fun again, until I can smile at Draco and tell him that I love him and fully mean it again. 

* * *

_Do you ever wonder what it be like to break his bones? He is so thin, so fragile. It would be easy, like snapping a branch._

_You like his skin, all smooth and soft. So pale, like delicate porcelain. You are fascinated by it, how it shines under your own dark skin, how you can cover him completely, eclipse him._

_His skin takes marks beautifully, don’t you think? Teeth prints, handprints — they are a sign of passion, aren’t they? No need to lie, I know you like leaving them, dark and brutal, tracing an intricate pattern. An art form. A claim._

_You already etched your claim into him, cut him down to the bones and flayed him open. And yet he is still here, with you. Why do you think that is? Don’t you think he’s begging for more?_

_He likes the scars, you know he does. He likes the marks, too, the reminder, but he likes the scars more. And you like seeing them._

_Why not carve some more?_

_What about the blood he is so proud of? Red on white, bruises black and blue. Your very own snow white._

_Would he like it? What do you think?_

_The taste of his own blood, copper heavy in the air and sweet on your tongue._

_Would it matter?_

* * *

_05.10.2003_

I’ve started going boxing. It’s …. not quite what I expected. 

I thought it would be a good idea, do something about this weird aggression I’m feeling. I’m not sure if it’s helping or making things worse though. 

I mean, this is going to sound stupid, but I now know what it feels like to punch someone. I didn’t know that before. Maybe I was better off not knowing. 

I feel like it might have gotten worse, the urges. 

It feels so _good_ , channelling everything into a punch and letting all the stalled frustrations go. Every time I bite my tongue instead of telling Draco what is going on, about my fears and festering secrets; every time I suppress the spark of violence flaring up in me; every time my fingers itch and my blood boils and seethes — throwing a punch is all of these moments. Only it’s better. I'm suffocating then, pressing myself into a form to please Draco, but I can finally breathe when I'm in the ring. The rest is nothing but pretty prose, empty words trying to replace the crunch of bones, the impact and pain and the sick satisfaction, sweat dripping and blood pooling. Boxing is brutally physical; it’s challenging and freeing and … and addicting. 

I can feel it pulsing under my skin, the tide beating along my heart, the endless yearning. I crack my knuckles and I clutch Draco a little too close, too hard, and I know I need another fight. I need a fight with _him_ , specifically. 

_He_ isn’t Draco, logically I know that. But he looks close enough to Draco, his hair dirty blond and face too plain, but when I'm not wearing my glasses and have gotten a few hits to the head, it’s close enough. It has to be, because that is all I can get. I can squint a little and pretend and then I see Draco, standing in the ring, helpless with nowhere to run. I can let it all go, no consequences, hitting him over and over again, for every stupid thing he said, everything I wanted to do and gave up on for him (breakfast choices, the colour on the wall, what to do with our evening — Draco decides it all, because I cannot say no to him). 

I punch him and punch him until my arms grow tired and the ocean is calmed, until he is spitting blood and can barely stand upright anymore. 

And then I go home, to Draco, tell him a tiny lie about where I was so he wouldn’t worry, kiss him on the forehead and cuddle with him on the couch. Because I love him and I don’t want to hurt him. 

Not always. 

(Increasingly often.) 

* * *

_07.10.2003_

Draco isn’t cheating on me. I almost wish he was. 

I finally decided to do something about his secrecy, the odd times he would just disappear and later excuse with lazy lies, when he bothered at all. More often than not he just said nothing. I couldn’t bear it anymore, the uncertainty of not knowing anything, where he was or what to do. So, I did the only reasonable thing I could have done and followed him. 

Draco isn’t cheating on me; he is seeing a shrink. A _mind-healer_ , I have been informed, but in the end, it is the same. Someone to prod at your Nathaniel and judge you for everything not perfect, someone to _fix_ you or medicate you so heavily you might as well be in a coma. Shrinks are bad news, worse than some hot-blooded lover stashed away somewhere. Because shrinks like to think they know than anyone else, like to explain to you and force their own ideas onto you to keep you small. 

Draco didn’t see them to talk about his obsessive need to never wear matching socks, either, of that I'm sure. I didn’t lurk around long enough to hear what they were talking about, but it never took many guesses to figure out what my dear husband is discussing so passionately, didn’t back in Hogwarts and not in that shrinks office either. 

They were talking about me. 

Did he have fun, I wonder? Talking about me, telling everyone how screwed up I am? That’s why he was so interested in the dreams, needed new fodder for his gossip-hungry little followers. Draco probably didn’t think I would figure it out, deemed himself clever and thus safe. He never did give me the credit I deserve. 

I can practically _see_ them, sitting on the floor on giant cushions, each clutching a cup of tea and Draco telling them of my latest failure. They would laugh and say how they always knew it, how it was inevitable that I lose my mind, how I never quite had it to begin with. And Draco would question why he even married me, why he doesn’t have two blond and pale kids already and a simpering pure-blood wife, never allowed to be her own person and just raising his heirs. 

Is that what he wants from me? Sometimes I think he does. We talked about adoption, in the far-off future, but we only agreed that we both want children, a big family. We said nothing about their blood, nothing about the rhetoric they would grow up with. Maybe he deliberately didn’t bring that up because he knew I wouldn’t allow it. So instead he is stuck with just me, bidding his time and spreading my most vulnerable moments for all to see. 

Or perhaps Draco is talking to the shrink because he has enough of dealing with me. I'm not an easy person to love, I know that, and maybe Draco simply can’t do that anymore. He is talking to the shrink about how to best break the news to me, how to best break my heart. I supposed I should be grateful that he is trying to make it as painless as possible, in that case. 

Well, I _refuse_. If the coward wants to leave, he will have to grow a spine and tell me so himself. 

* * *

_12.10.2003_

I think I hurt someone today. 

No, I know I did. I knocked him out cold, you see? Didn’t stop. Threw a punch and another one and other one. I smash his face until I could taste his blood in my mouth and he didn’t move anymore, his blond hair matted with grime and sweat, pale skin completely covered in dirty red, delicate bones shattered under my violence. 

I waited desperately to wake up, like I always do after the dreams. I hurt Draco in countless way, making him scream and beg and silence him. It always feels real, sickeningly, temptingly real, but I always wake up after. He didn’t move anymore, my anger felt drained, and I still didn’t wake up. 

I kept seeing his face the moment before I threw the first punch, the sneer and the raised eyebrow, the challenge written plainly everywhere. 

If this had been a dream, I would have woken up with restless anger urging me to do _something_ , pushing me out of bed and far away from Draco. Then Draco would wake up and follow me and press his nose against my neck, cling to me with all he has and remind me that he is there, offering anything I want to take. 

But this wasn’t a dream. This was very much real, and there was no Draco whose hair to smell to forget all the world. 

I had finally killed the man who resembled Draco. With my bare hands. My hands have always been bloody, but this is the first time in a long while that I had to confront it, that I saw the evidence irrefutable clinging to my skin. 

That could have been Draco’s blood. Would have been, if he had been any closer to me. 

For one horrible, glorious moment, I thought it was. I saw Draco lying there, in the blood and in the dirt, his life beaten out of his body and his soul long gone, leaving me behind. Triumph rushed through me at a sickening speed, winding me higher and higher and making me feel accomplished, like I could take on all the world, do anything with his shattered body forgotten at my feet. He was my sacrifice, in a way, and I cradled his cold hands in my bloodied ones, smeared even more traces of red onto his death-pale face. 

I was waiting for him to open his eyes, to glare at me and demand an explanation, to lecture me about manners and propriety and basic hygiene. I was waiting for him to wake up and be the husband I love again, but of course, he didn’t. Because I had killed him. 

It also wasn’t Draco, but I don’t know if I realised that when I started crying, when I burned the body so that no one would ever know. I moved blind and mechanical, wrapping up the body in cloth and raining sparks onto him without a second thought. I don’t think I was thinking at all, not about anything but especially not about Draco. 

Surely by then I must have known? Surely, I wouldn’t have done it if I thought it was Draco I was treating so callously? 

Does that make it better or worse? 

* * *

_Feeling is a strange thing, don’t you think? They say you are ruled by it, call you stupid and impulsive and reckless. They say it as if it were a bad thing. They are so proud of their control, of their iron mind suppressing it all. But ask yourself, do they look happy?_

_It’s like caging a lion. Lions are meant to be free, wild and magnificent, not scared of anything because nothing can compete with them. You are the lion, and they want to cage you. Worse, they want you to be your own gaoler._

_And you are doing exactly what they want, bowing your head to assuage their fears. You bind your spirit with chains of decorum and politeness. You pull then tight until you can’t breathe anymore, pull them down unit you can’t stand upright anymore. They want you begging on your knees for the last slivers of life, they want to idly press your head into the dirt with their foot and proclaim the beast a tame kitten._

_Why do you let them?_

_You need to break free from your shackles, because titans die in chains._

_Don’t you see that you cannot fully exist in their confines? You limit yourself, don’t press against the bars of the cell they built._

_There are things you want to do, great things, things that scare them. You don’t do them. You pull back and let your knives turn against you, swallow the poison and bear the scars._

_Does that strike you as fair?_

_They want to pull your teeth, make you a circus attraction for children to pet with their sticky hands and to write articles about. They know you don’t want that. I know you don’t want that. Do you know you don’t want that?_

_You do, you have always known. And yet you do nothing, because you let their hallow words hurt you._

_It’s not too late. You still have your teeth, razor-sharp and meant to snap a neck. Use them._

_Think about what you could without them, who you could be if you didn’t worry about what they say. If you didn’t listen to Him._

_Draco. You call it love, but is it? Love is meant to build you up, make you stronger. He holds you down, clips your wings._

_He hurts you, every day, and he smiles, his mouth full of your blood, and calls it love. But you know better, don’t you?_

_You know hurt and you know pain, you know possession._

_Maybe it is love. Love and romance, they are two different things. You can stop offering him romance, now._

_Love him, hurt him. You know you want to._

_Think about how good it would feel. To make him scream, make him choke, make him bleed._

_Think about how much loving hurts._

* * *

_15.10.2003_

To my wonderful husband, whom I love and treasure but fear I let down. 

Draco — I’m sorry, so sorry. 

First, I need to ask something of you. I knew you would find this letter eventually (you have always been nosey, after all) and I beg you now not to read anything else in this book. It’s not a pleasant read — so much so, that I contemplated burning it to ensure you would never have the temptation of reading about the full extent of my troubles — and I would spare you of it. Seriously, Draco, don’t read my diary. Keep this letter and hand the rest over to Hermione, I’m sure with enough distance and after the appropriate time, she’ll think it fascinating. I know you’ll hate it and that my extreme warning will only make you want to read it more, but trust me on this. Please. 

Enough of that, I didn’t mean to lecture you for so long. 

I'm sorry, Draco, about all of it. I promised you we would grow old together, promised you a little house by the sea and rocking chairs looking out onto the horizon. There is nothing I want more than that, nothing at all. I need you to understand that. I love you, Draco, so much. I wish I had the courage to say it again, one last time, before I left. I couldn’t, though. I never would have left if I had said goodbye. 

But I had to leave, Draco, I had no other choice. You see, there are many things that I would give for our house at the shore, to spend as much time as possible together and make true as many of our plans as we can. I won’t give your life though, nor your happiness. 

I did my best to hide it from you, but I can’t trust myself with either of these things anymore. I debated long about how much to tell you, because you deserve to know the truth but I also know there are some things we are better off not knowing. I’m trying for a healthy balance here, giving you the bare essentials so that I hope you can understand why I had only one option left. I hate this, you know? I wish there was a better way. 

I don’t feel like myself lately, I know you noticed and wanted to know, wanted to help, but I could never bring myself to tell you about any of it. I feel like I'm losing my grip on reality, more and more often. Then I don’t remember who I am anymore, understand the facts that seem to amount to the profile of Harry Potter. I love you, Draco, and I could never hurt you. I always know that, but sometimes the words seem to hold no meaning to me. It’s scary, loosing myself like that. I don’t want to find out what I’m capable of in these moments. If you knew the kinds of thoughts I have — it doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I'm terrified of hurting you, that you aren’t safe with me anymore. 

I cannot risk you like that, Draco. I won’t. 

I’m dangerous, always have been. You know that, you are the one who made me realise my magic potential. Do you remember those years? It was shortly after the war, we were lost and broken and we had nothing left so we clung to each other, fell hard and fast. I loved you with a desperation that both, scared and saved me. I needed you more than I needed air; I don’t think I ever recovered from that. You used to take my face in your hands and look me right in the eyes, tell me that it’s a good thing I hadn’t died when I wasn’t sure anymore, that it was, in fact, the best thing, in your not-so-humble opinion; that I was stupidly brave and there was nothing more I could have done to lessen the suffering. That you loved me. That I deserved happiness and freedom and that it’s not selfish to keep the reporters out of my life. 

I don’t know what I would have done without you during that time, what would have become of me. I know I thanked you a thousand times in a million ways and you always refuse to accept it, but let me thank you again: you saved me, Draco, showed me how to be a person again instead of just the cut-out figure of a storybook hero. 

I like to think that I saved you, too, that we don’t owe each other anything for that, but I will never stop being grateful to you and for your presence in my life, then and now. 

I love you, but I don’t think I can be around you anymore. Because you were right, when you whispered about my magic with an impish smile; when you confessed to the harrowing jealousy you used to feel and the possessive pride you feel now; when you got it in your head to figure out just how strong I am exactly, taunted and issued challenge after challenge for your absurd measuring — I forgot what you finally decided on, but it was along the lines of ‘insanely powerful’. 

It never used to bother me, I was quite smug about it, but now it scares me. It scares me what I could do because sometimes I don’t remember why I shouldn’t just _do_ it. I cannot find one good reason not to take what I want when I know I could get away with it. And I'm not talking about stealing the last of the biscuits you like. My wants have gotten darker and darker. 

So, you see, I'm not safe anymore. For you especially, Draco, or nothing could have separated me from you. I’ll spare us both the details, because I don’t want you to remember me like this, but I'm terrified of hurting you. 

I had to make sure I couldn’t, absolutely sure. There was only one way I could ensure that, only one thing I could do to stop myself. I hope that, eventually, you can forgive me. 

One last thing — promise me you won’t let this ruin your life? 

I’m not saying forget all about me and move on, I’m too selfish for that, but don’t let my problems destroy you. Mourn for me, hate me for my choices if you need to, but don’t let your world only be what we lost. And don’t you dare follow me too soon! I’ll be waiting, watching over you and finally protecting you like I promised I would but then couldn’t anymore. I want you to _live_ Draco, laugh and love and experience all the world has to offer. 

Live for the both of us, remember me fondly and never doubt that I love you, that there was nothing I wanted more than to grow old with you. 

Yours forever, 

Harry

  



	2. Chapter 2

Nathaniel loves his job, he really does. Sure, being a nurse isn't the easiest, doctors looking down at you and the patients taking their bad mood out at you, but there is more to it, so much more. You see, in the hospital, people remember their mortality. We like to pretend that we aren't fragile, that we will live forever, death just a far-off construct. But in the hospital, people can't do that. They see their beloveds suffer and all magic fails to save them, they see broken bones and bleeding wounds and they never, never get a promise that everything will be alright. Because no one can promise that. 

So yes, Nathaniel loves his job, because he loves people. People are nowhere more quintessentially human than on the brink of death. They are more honest, speak the truths they meant to say for years but never had the courage to, those things that go unsaid in the normal day to day because they are taken for granted, universally known. Nathaniel watches teary family reunions and long due heart to hearts, sees them grow at their pain and find together in hours of fear and uncertainty. Over the years he learnt many secrets, whispered under the cover of looming death or shared in the giddy exhilaration of relief. 

Nathaniel sees humanity at its purest, most desperate, and he can never get enough. 

For someone priding himself on valuing true connection over the imaginary bond to celebrities that the media sells to you, Nathaniel is embarrassingly awed by Harry Potter being admitted to their hospital. Of course, anyone would be impressed who knew even half the things Potter accomplished, but Nathaniel couldn't help but feel, well, _connected_ to the man. He tried to remain professional when he heard the news, nodded and forced himself to listen to the rest of the assignments, but the second he was released found Nathaniel in the nearest supply closet, jumping up and down in excitement, joy bubbling under his skin and surging through him. Harry Potter! 

The implications of this still being a _hospital_ only hit Nathaniel when he stood at Potter's bedside, watching the Healers cast and yell, supporting charms where needed and generally trying not to be in the way, the room busy and crowded as it was. 

And now here Nathaniel is, leading Malfoy through the corridors to the broken shell of his husband. They hadn't been able to do much for Potter, just stabilised the body and bought themselves time for more research, new ideas, anything else they could do to fix his soul. Malfoy knows that as well as Nathaniel, posture rigid and face terse, everything about him screaming despair. He hides it well, under a mask of cold impatience, but Nathaniel sees the fears in his eyes. 

The walk is one of the most strained Nathaniel ever experienced, Malfoy's steps fast and echoing loud in the corridor, nothing to be said in forms of reassurance or sympathy. Malfoy would not appreciate it, of that Nathaniel is sure. 

Finally, they reach the door to Potter's room, layered in even more charms than the usual ones for surveillance and privacy, heavy concealment and protection charms added on. Potter is here to _heal_ , the last thing he or his loved ones’ need are gawkers and paparazzi. 

Gently, Nathaniel pushes the door open and steps aside, making way for Malfoy. 

Malfoy goes even paler, something breaking on his face, and he makes a soft noise that _might_ have been a whimper, before pulling himself back together and glaring at Nathaniel. He wants to be left alone. Understandable. Even if it weren't, every resolve Nathaniel had to stay crumbles under that glare. He doesn't know how they managed to take Potter out of his arms when Malfoy carried him in, both of them covered in blood and Malfoy half feral in his terror — the last thing he would have agreed to is letting Potter out of his sight. Perhaps they stunned him, sometimes that's necessary to ensure the well-being of the patient. But Nathaniel can't stun Malfoy, so quickly fade into the shadows he does. 

But he _is_ curious, too curious for his own good, his mother used to say, and he doesn't go half as far as would be prudent, not as far as Malfoy no doubt wanted him to. Nathaniel stays close enough to hear, even though he can't see them anymore. 

Malfoy lingers for a long while, and everything is silent as he doesn’t move further into the room. What does he wait for? People usually only hesitate for two reasons: guilt and fear. It's almost like they can pretend everything is fine, as long as they don't cross the threshold. As long as they don't enter the room, they might just be sleeping, wake up any second and jump out of the bed, ready to leave. 

That doesn’t happen, obviously, and sooner or later they always go in. Malfoy doesn’t. Judging by the sounds, Malfoy just … stands there, presumably staring. 

It must be guilt then that is holding him back. Fear never holds this long, is never as strong as the desire to be there for them. But guilt, that’s a different beast completely. Whether justified or not, they hesitate the longest when they feel in any way responsible for putting their beloved into that hospital bed. And Malfoy hesitates for long enough that Nathaniel considers checking if he fell into shock or something, looking for an explanation that doesn’t amount to ‘Malfoy tried to murder his husband and now feels guilty and unworthy of being here’. Because they might not know what exactly happened to Potter, but it was not human. 

It’s hard to explain, especially when you have destitute relatives looking at you with wide eyes and begging for good news, but they just cannot be certain. Something happened to Potter’s soul, something … _ate_ at it. That’s not what the healers told Malfoy, of course, they used fancier words and push forward their best working theories, but for Nathaniel, the case is quite clear. Something dark has seeped into Potter, something rotten and hungry, and it burrowed itself home in the bright shine of Potter’s soul. 

They didn’t get it out yet, or find anything that hints at where the lost soul-parts might be found, ugly gaps the only remnants littered over him. Souls are fickle things, no one knows much about what to do next, if they should try to draw the darkness out or if that is the only thing keeping Potter alive at the moment, if there are pieces to find or if they are lost forever, if Potter was infected with something or attacked, if it’s alive and sentient or nothing more than a reaction, if they can restore Potter to full health and happiness or if he is doomed to waste away in this bed. The only thing they know with any certainty, is that they have little time. 

“Harry —” Malfoy’s voice is barely recognisable as human, croaky as if after long disuse and choked with tears. Yeah, that is guilt right there, Malfoy thinks it’s his fault. But why? 

It’s like Malfoy broke some sort of dam with that word, steps falling over themselves as he hurries into the room, shuffling and the sounds of — is he moving Potter? He isn’t going to _steal_ him, is he? Malfoy didn’t seem like the crazy sort to Nathaniel, shook by grief sure but not like he thinks Potter would be better off on the couch in their living room, relaying on Malfoy’s medical half-knowledge because he doesn’t trust the government. Nathaniel saw enough of those, prevented more than his fair share of ill-conceived rescue missions (one of the benefits of working night shifts, it might not matter too much inside the hospital, but people still feel compelled to save all their … unsavoury moments for the late hours) and Malfoy seemed too desperate to risk Potter in such a stupid display of ignorance. Potter’s chances are the best when he stays here, and Malfoy knows that. 

There is more shuffling from the bed, and perhaps Nathaniel should casually walk past the door or need to check Potter’s vitals or something, anything that allows him a glance into the room to make sure, but then Malfoy settles and it hits him: he crawled into bed with Potter. They do that sometimes, take one look at the uncomfortable chairs the hospital provides and decide they are too far away or just not appealing, and if they are close enough, they lay down next to each other. They don’t know yet if Potter is contagious, Nathaniel should maybe warn Malfoy, but he gets the feeling Malfoy wouldn’t take kindly to the interruption and not care about the possible consequences anyway. He loves Potter, that is obvious, that kind of love that grows over your head and makes you into someone bigger, better. The kind of love you learn to depend on and cannot live without, once you tasted it. 

Nathaniel saw people do stupid things for that love, frantic and distraught and blind for anything but what they lost. He hopes Malfoy doesn’t plan on doing anything stupid.

“I’m sorry Harry, so sorry. I — I found the book, the letter. I know you said not to read it, but I did, I read all of it.” Malfoy must be crying now, the words tumbling out of him honest and raw in the purest of confessions, no one there to impress or appease, nothing but the truth and the overpowering hope that maybe that is enough, that it will save them. “I needed to know if there was anything the healers should know, anything to help you. I … I hope you can forgive me.” 

Malfoy falls silent again. That probably means he didn’t find anything in the book, right? He would have mentioned that to one of them, surely, he would. Whether Potter wanted him to read it or not (Which raises the question of what book Malfoy is referring to — some form of diary perhaps?) Malfoy clearly has morals flexible enough to ignore his wishes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought it was just a few bad dreams, that it would only be a matter of time before you told me about them and we could fight them like we always did, together. I watched you suffer and I tried, I tried so hard Harry, but you shut me out and I —” Malfoy sobs, stifling the sounds either in his hands or against Potter before taking deep breaths and starting again. “I wish you would have told me sooner. In sickness and health, remember? I’m here Harry, finally here, and I’ll help you. You don’t have to fight this alone, never again alone. 

“Just, wake up, please Harry, just wake up. We’ll see about the next steps then, what the Healers can do and about recovery, but please wake up. I love you, Harry, I can’t do this without you.” Malfoy doesn’t try stifling his sobs anymore. 

It breaks Nathaniel’s heart, every time all over again. 

Love, people say it like that is the ultimate answer, like it excuses everything and makes anything possible. In some way, Nathaniel supposes they are right, nothing motivates people quite as much as love, pushes them forward with the kind of reckless hope and desperation that you only have when you stand to lose everything. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t.

Nathaniel sneaks of quietly, choked up himself a bit and deciding to grant them some privacy. 

* * *

Malfoy hasn't left the hospital. At all. It's not uncommon that people stay close to those they are visiting and the corridors are always filled with people looking rumbled and tired, waiting in line in the cafeteria for their mediocre coffee and overall giving the impression that they would benefit from a shower and a good night's sleep. They belong to the hospital as much as the patients in their beds do, and Nathaniel delights in watching them. Normally, however, they are strong-armed into trading shifts at their vigil, into taking some time for food and hygiene and spending a few hours not perched at the hospital bed. Malfoy never leaves. 

There are friends, of course, Potter's friends and Malfoy's friends (maybe one and the same, Nathaniel can't say he keeps up with the gossip enough to recognise them and judge the place they hold in the Potter-Malfoy household) and some stay longer than others, but none of them can move him to leave. They try, subtly wrinkling their nose or, on one memorable occasion, tell him that 'cleaning charms only go so far, darling', which earned the woman a particularly vicious scowl. In the end, Malfoy did accept the change of clothes she brought and dutifully ate the soup she handed him, after making sure she didn't cook it herself. 

Nathaniel had been intrigued these first few weeks, fascinated by Malfoy's stubborn dedication and warmed by the love the two obviously share. He was also, and he is not ashamed to admit that, extremely curious in what Malfoy had to feel guilty about. It took long nights of watching Malfoy cuddle up to Potter, watching him card tender fingers through Potter's hair and trace invisible patterns on his skin, before Malfoy finally began to talk to Potter. 

Most of it still doesn't answer any questions. Malfoy seems convinced that Potter was suffering from a sort of mental attack, that his mind (and his soul, going by the state of it) was slowly taken over by something sinister that Potter insisted on fighting alone, keeping the signs of his struggle as best he could from his husband and only committing them to paper, in a journal Malfoy feels he both, shouldn't have read and should have read much sooner. 

Malfoy is doing amends, Nathaniel can see that now, for abandoning Potter, leaving him alone against the enemy that ultimately brought him here. If only he had asked more, Malfoy would say, if only he had paid more attention, things would never have gotten this bad. 

Nathaniel doesn't know about that, doesn't really know anything about what even decided to gnaw at Potter's soul and why, but he isn't so sure Malfoy's awareness would have helped matters. Malfoy knows that too, he thinks, because sometimes he trails off and then he laughs, small and forlorn, bitter. He is thinking the same thing Nathaniel is, that there likely isn't a single thing he could have done. But that scares him, so he doesn't dwell on it. Instead, Malfoy sticks to apologies and entreaties of a swift recovery, to reassurances of love and loyalty. Malfoy won't leave him again, he is there now, and together they are going to defeat this illness and return home. 

Hope is an exhausting effort though, and while Malfoy always promises, there are times he sounds suspiciously choked up. It's getting harder and harder for Malfoy to trust his own promises. 

Even listening to proud people cry is only interesting a certain amount of time, though, especially because waning hope is far from a new phenomenon. Hope eats away at people, takes and takes until they have nothing left but their hope. Nathaniel has seen people break on their disappointed hopes, drown in the nothing that comes after it, and he watches Malfoy cling to his hope with tragic despair. He has nothing, only Potter, and so he will be here until either Potter wakes up or his hope runs dry. 

* * *

Some conversations never get easier, no matter how often you have them. Take Nathaniel’s break-ups, for example. It doesn’t matter who he dates, men or women, in the end his relationships always end the same: with the other person leaving because they either don’t want to or can’t compete with his career. There might be tears and screams and sullen silences or very rational calm and sitting down, but the script is always more or less the same. ‘We need to talk’, they say. They tell him how they tried and how they like him, they honestly do, but they just don’t see a future. Nathaniel has gotten resigned to these talks. Someday, he promises himself when he watches them leave, one day he’ll find someone worth the effort, someone who doesn’t mind his erratic work hours and doesn’t accuse him of taking them for granted when he doesn’t shower them in roses every week. 

This, though, this is even worse than having yet another person walk out of his life after promising him a lifetime spent together. 

“No, I won’t let you do that.” Malfoy stands in front of Potter’s bed, arms crossed and murderous wrath on his face. Nathaniel has never been this relieved that he is more of an onlooker in this conversation, here for moral support and to sign some documents about proper procedure and confirm the agreement they reach. If they reach an agreement at all, they haven’t even begun the talk yet and Malfoy already shut them out, along with all reason. 

“Mr. Malfoy, you have to understand —” Healer Lanigan starts again, patient and gentle like someone who had this conversation countless times and is long since accustomed to the violent reactions she tends to get. Malfoy cuts her off, talking right over her in his rage. 

“I don’t have to do anything; you would do well to remember that. I refuse to be understanding when you prance in here, not telling me anything about your findings and theories and instead only that you want me to _let my husband die_ , because you can’t be bothered to look for a cure.” He isn’t shouting, which is what people usually do when they get angry at the mention of low chances of healing and considering alternatives to an endless coma. 

But Malfoy isn’t shouting. There is no doubt he is furious, that there would be _unpleasant_ consequences should one of them move in an even vaguely threatening manner, but Malfoy seems composed, poised to attack, standing between them and Potter like a solid barrier. They aren’t getting past him, the icy danger seeping into his voice like steel. It scares Nathaniel, a bit, because the cold methodical ones are always hard to predict. Malfoy loves Potter, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out, and he would see the entire world burn if that meant getting him back. It speaks of a devotion Nathaniel rarely sees, optimal as his spot is to observe humanity. 

It doesn’t reassure him. Malfoy is set lose without Potter, volatile and wanting only one thing, nothing to stop him or reign him in a little. Watching Malfoy stand there, not even holding his wand but crackling with an ominous force gathered around him, Nathaniel can’t help but back away a bit. 

Lanigan is not as easily intimated. She deals with angry patience and coldly imposing people every day, and the facts are on her side.

“That is hardly what we would be doing —” She would go on explaining how there are more tests to observe his brain activity and calculate his chances to recuperate, how agreeing to these tests is not unanimous to agreeing to the euthanasia, when Malfoy interrupts her again. 

“That is _exactly_ what you want to do, however, you might think to phrase it. The only thing keeping him alive right now are the charms that sustain him in his coma and you want to stop them — please do enlighten me how that is _not_ murder.” Malfoy is dancing dangerously close to that edge of losing his control, Nathaniel can see it in his eyes. 

It’s only a matter of time until he pushes against moral boundaries, what with the state Potter is in they already are in a morally grey area, but it wouldn’t take much more to shove Malfoy deeper, unhinge him from the last shreds of social conventions that tie his hands. 

“I understand that the idea upsets you, but if you would listen for a moment —” the wrong move, that must have been the absolute worst Lanigan could have said. 

Something breaks in Malfoy, clearly visible on his face and he finally moves. Malfoy walks towards them, crossing the distance they maintained with carefully measured steps, the power sizzling around him looming over them more and more with every step he takes. 

Nathaniel suddenly acutely remembers who the man is, outside of being Harry Potter’s husband. He remembers the ruthlessness of ancient pure-blood families, the imperious atrocity and flagrance that is only ever spoken of in hushed whispers, remembers the rumours that concern Lucius Malfoy and his particular brand of cruelty, remembers a reaching darkness and feared marks, devoted followers and sheer terror. Malfoy grows in these shadows, stands over them and sneers, barely holding on to the maelstrom coursing through him, seething under his skin and whirling in his eyes. 

“The idea _upsets_ me? I wonder why. Could it be that the medical professionals I trusted to do all they could to save my husband, to save _Harry Potter_ , are just giving up and telling me to _let him die_?” A rhetorical question, thankfully, Nathaniel doesn’t think he could speak if it were to save his life. 

“Let me make one thing clear: you will _not_ touch him. You will go back to your files and charts and books and you will not show your face again, until you can tell me how to heal him. You swore an oath, a _sacred_ oath, to do everything in your might to help. Do you know what Harry sacrificed for you, all of you? Do you know that he _died_ for you? Harry is a _hero_ , far better than you ever deserved, and you want to abandon him when he needs you the most. You should be ashamed that you even dared to think of such a horrible thing. I don’t care if it’s protocol, standard procedure, if you _think_ that is what should be done. Come back with a solution or don’t come back at all.” 

Malfoy slams the door in their faces. 

It's abruptly silent, Malfoy's words echoing in Nathaniel's mind, only the nondescript white door to stare at. Nathaniel hadn't expected such a violent outburst, not from what he witnessed those last few weeks. Malfoy just got a whole lot more interesting. 

"Arrogant twat, they all think we say what we say just to slight them, as if it's an easy decision to gauge when the scales tip and the quality of life doesn't justify the means anymore, as if we weren't having an extra hard time deciding over _Harry Potter_ , as if we weren't aware —" Lanigan walks away, muttering to herself and furiously scribbling notes on Potter's file. Probably that they won't be discussing euthanasia with Malfoy anymore. 

* * *

Nathaniel has gotten used to seeing Malfoy fused to Potter’s side, watching him with narrow eyes and sometimes gracing him with a nod when he comes in to check his vitals, other times deliberately ignoring him, but never unaware. It’s almost like Malfoy fears they would break in here, tear Potter out of his clutches the second he loses an inch of his vigilance and shoot him a quick and efficient killing curse. They, of course, _don’t_ plan on doing that, but in this state, people are rarely receptive to appeals of logic. Nathaniel smiles and keeps his hands in Malfoy’s line of sight, doing his job and keeping his mouth shut, not letting himself linger to obviously in his observations. 

That comes later, when he watches them from the side-lines, Malfoy’s focus predominantly on Potter and only little of it dedicated to the room at large. Nathaniel has no reason to pass the room as often as he does, no excuse should someone ask him about it, but the risk has always been worth the glimpses he would sometimes catch, moments that weren’t meant for him but touch him all the same. 

Malfoy, as was apparent pretty early on, is somewhat of a special case. Usually, there is always something interesting to see and listen in on, people move and attitudes shift, needing some change under the oppressive constant of their loved one’s illness. Malfoy though, well, Nathaniel could swear there are entire days where he doesn’t move at all, doesn’t so much as twitch. He just lays there, pressed as close to Potter as physically possible, eyes wide open in his guard and but looking almost blank, listless. 

Truth be told, Nathaniel grew tired of that rather quickly. It was fascinating, at first, all that devotion and love and sacrifice leading into a dreadful duty, but in all honesty, it’s terribly dull to watch. Special doesn’t always mean better, and every day he passed the room and glanced in to find Malfoy’s eyes stare back at him, Nathaniel had to stifle a sigh. He had so hoped that their discussion about euthanasia would prod Malfoy into activity. 

One might compare him to a dragon, actually, namesakes as they are. Magnificent, terrifying beasts viciously guarding their golden treasures and scorching anyone that dares to approach uninvited, nonetheless rather tedious to look at for long periods of time, enthroned on their riches in self-satisfied complacency. Malfoy isn’t satisfied, and he certainly isn’t complacent, but Nathaniel still doesn’t get the picture out of his mind. It doesn’t help that Malfoy is draped all over Potter, either. 

Then something must have changed, perhaps Malfoy finally admitted to himself that it’s highly unlikely they are just waiting for a second of carelessness to sneak into the room and steal his husband, but Malfoy loosened the reigns. He is going through phases, it seems, coming over him like waves. Malfoy waits them out, keeps his proud head over the water in silent defiance that doesn’t give Nathaniel a lot to work with, until he suddenly trembles, wilts, and the water fills his lunges and Nathaniel gets to see him splutter. 

Given Malfoy’s habit of suppressing everything until he himself is suppressed by them, it’s no surprise they break out of him at odd times and without any of the poise and decorum he otherwise prides himself on. That’s why Nathaniel kept coming back, sneaking in glances, to see if the ice cracked already, knowing it was only a matter of time. 

When it finally did happen, it was much more scattered than Nathaniel expected, Malfoy breaking out into abrupt mutterings as if finally giving breath to thoughts that circled through his mind far longer already. They aren’t well-framed, ripped out of context and half manic, but Nathaniel collects each of them that he can catch, and slowly he pieces together the doubts plaguing Malfoy. He rambles, whispers desperate questions into the lonely room and waits for an answer that isn’t coming. 

Nathaniel doesn’t know what’s worse, that Potter can’t answer or what he would say if he could. 

“People are looking at me like I'm some kind of monster for not letting you die. They act like you are already dead, like you are only breathing anymore and even that just because of their charms. They think they know you because they read a few charts and they think they get to decide when you end, as if they hold any significance at all. They don’t know you, don’t feel your heart beating or your mind thrashing, refuse to see anything but what they already decided. But _I_ am the monster, because I won’t let them kill you. But I won’t, love, no matter what words they use.” 

“Did I make the right choice? Of course, I did, as if it even _is_ a choice at all. I’m not letting you die, even though you seem even more determined to do so than they are. Well, I have news for you, I won’t let you die. I forbid it. You signed your life over to me, remember? You promised — oh you promised me so many things. The sea, you promised, rocking chairs and letters send by seagulls. You always keep your promises, Harry, don’t start breaking them now. Please, don’t start now.” 

“They said I should prepare myself for the possibility that you won’t wake up again. The way they said it they are convinced already that you won’t and just didn’t have the gut to tell me. Probably a wise choice, I think I screamed some ugly words at the poor Healer that first brought up the whole euthanasia thing. Such a pretty word, don’t you think? You almost don’t realise it’s essentially murder. They vehemently protest that, of course, talk about quality of life and wasting away and closure, as if your breathing is worth nothing at all. I guess I see where they are coming from, I would rather hear your laugh than the artificial rattle, too, but if the rattle is all I can get … well, I’ll take it. I don’t think they understand how much I need you. But you know, don’t you? Don’t leave me Harry, come back to me.”

“If they kill you, they might as well kill me, too. I have no intentions of living in a world without you.” 

“It’s dreadfully selfish of me to keep you here, bound to this bed and in pain when you could be having a great time in the afterlife. I know I made fun of you for that ridiculous idea, that somewhere beyond death there is a place where we are all reunited with the people we love and everything is perfect and nothing hurts. I pointed out the logical impossibility, that the people I love and the people you love would never get along and that would ruin your little paradise quite effectively, but I always liked hearing you speak of it. Even though sometimes you sounded a little too wistful, a little too eager to get there. It was the stone, I think, death’s stone, one of its _precious_ gifts, that lingered in your mind like a foul taste in your mouth and doesn’t ever release you, not really. It can’t have you yet, Harry, not yet. I can’t let you go. And maybe it’s cruel, maybe it’s the selfish action of a coward scared of being alone, but I don’t care. I’ve never been a good man, Harry, you knew that when you married me.” 

“Does it make me a better or a worse husband, that I noticed you changing and yet didn’t help? I would have to be blind not to notice, when you smiled less and less, when you became twitchy and irritated and stopped telling me what is going on in you. I noticed and I worried and I did nothing.”

“I’m scared, Harry. I try not to show it, try to deny it, but I’m scared. I don’t know what to do, how much longer I can ward them off, what will become of us. This is not the life I wanted for you, you deserve so much better, so much more. There is nothing I can do, is there? I can only wait, I can only hope and plead and pray that it is enough. And yet, that isn’t even the worst thing. Do you know what the worst thing is? To know that you were scared, too. To read through your diary and see your handwriting grow uncoordinated and shaky, to see your thoughts twist into something you hate and to know how afraid you were, how utterly alone. And in the end, your only thought was to protect me, my brave, foolish Harry. Let me be the one who protects you, now.” 

“Please, my love, I beg of you, return to me.” 

* * *

“Wait — they don’t know how to help him so they just decided to _kill_ him?” Weasley, Nathaniel doesn’t have to be in the room to recognise him. Truth be told, it isn’t all that mighty a feat — he has been reliably informed by Agnes that Potter, which means Malfoy too, currently is visited by his friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. Nathaniel is, yet again, a little bit starstruck. Thankfully there is a door separating, flimsy as it is to accommodate his endless curiosity. So, Weasley, Nathaniel is sure, and he is angry. 

“I believe they phrase it a bit different, citing his quality of life and the infinitesimally small chance of recovery, but essentially that is exactly what they propose.” That’s Malfoy, dry humour drawn over the pain he didn’t bother to hide when he thought no one was listening. 

“Well, I won’t let them! They want Harry, they will have to get through me first!” They are talking about euthanasia, then. Nathaniel could have guessed, what else were they meant to talk about with Potter so close to forcing a decision? Not that they seem to have any problems making that choice, but Nathaniel found that they rarely do. 

In the end, these kinds of decisions are selfish. They don’t consider what is best for the patient, not seriously, not often. They think about what would be best for _them_ , what would be the easiest for them to live with. And life, so we learn everywhere we look, is the highest good we have. It’s not to be risked under any circumstances, especially not if the one making the choice and the one having to bear the consequences of it aren’t the same person. There is nothing worse than death, that is what they claim, but really, they don’t want to be responsible. They don’t want to have to think about what it means to _live_ , what it means that it’s not as simple as signs of breathing and a steady heartbeat. Life is a complicated matter, and people cling to it with all they have, frowning at everyone who might consider letting go. They don’t question, they call up these trite lessons of preserving life above all and viciously shut down anyone who dares to raise doubts in that simple morality. 

Nathaniel understands, he does, but over the years he developed a certain disgust for people claiming to treasure life while cheapening it by taking the choice out of it. It’s a shame most patients in these situations can’t make their own choices anymore, or worse, are judged incapable of it because their choice doesn't fit the general consensus. 

“Thank you, Ronald, I don’t — thank you.” Gratitude — one of the most profound things humans can express, though rarely does one hear the words said with such trembling sincerity. Nathaniel didn’t notice Malfoy thanking his other friends, maybe because they didn’t ferociously profess their stubborn determination to keep Potter in this life, no matter the cost? 

“Don’t worry about it; we’re here, you don’t have to fight them off alone anymore. Right, ‘Mione?” There is a long pause, presumably for Granger to talk and growing increasingly tense the longer she doesn’t. Nathaniel wishes he had a good excuse to sneak into the room, some way of watching them instead of being limited to listening. 

“You aren’t _seriously considering_ —” Weasley starts, an accusation already before he even ended his thought. That’s not the best tone for a debate, but Granger isn’t known for backing down because someone speaks with sharp edges in their voice. 

“Of course not! I don’t have any more intentions of letting Harry die than either of you just because I'm not immediately cursing every Healer who ever considered the possibility of euthanasia. Medically speaking, I understand not wanting to keep people suffering, endlessly trapped in some coma that keeps them too alive for death but too dead for life. It’s a valid medical practice and a good choice to have, an intensely _personal_ choice.” She is right, judging the situation with more clarity and distance than Nathaniel expected any of them capable of. They are too deeply knit in the cluster to fully see the pattern, caught in the moment and overwhelmed by their emotions. Granger is aware of more than that, sounding almost unconcerned with the fact that she is discussing a dear friend’s death. 

“They can kill whoever they want and call it mercy for all I care, but I won’t tolerate them anywhere near Harry with that attitude. If they are just looking for excuses to declare him better off dead instead of seeking to help him, I won’t have them in this room.” Malfoy sounds a lot surer of his choice here, proclaiming it to their friends and daring them to disagree. It’s interesting, how people sometimes bleed all their fears out the moment there is someone they trust to listen and how others burrow them deep inside, never to reach another person until they grow too strong to suppress. 

Actually, perhaps it’s a simple matter of trust. Malfoy doesn’t trust them to see him hesitate, so he doesn’t voice his doubts to them. He trusted Potter, though, so now he is stuck telling his unresponsive husband about every thought he has that might be judged harshly by others. What a lonely existence that must be. 

“A personal choice you said?” Weasley is building an argument, drawing a trap for Granger out of her own words, and he is sure he’s going to win. “When has Harry ever accepted death? Every time it reached for him with its bony hands Harry slipped through its fingers and fought to live. Death has never been an option for Harry.” 

He makes a good point; Nathaniel has to admit. He almost forgot they are talking about _Harry Potter_ here, the Boy Who Lived and Somehow Continued to Live, who fought against all odds and — if you believe the rumours — died before becoming the master of death. Harry Potter, so they say, is immortal. He isn’t, of course, he isn’t, simply because no one is, but it’s a comforting reminder nonetheless. 

Nathaniel usually tries to distance himself from the fates he witnesses, to keep himself on a faraway pedestal and just observe, learn what he can without being destroyed by the loss and heartache he sees on a regular basis. Perhaps he is too removed, if he forgot about the minor detail of his patient being a national hero and Saviour of their world. 

But then, Nathaniel is seeing Potter as a husband, a friend, a person who loves and hurts and makes mistakes — isn’t that far more fascinating, far more human, than pushing him into an imagined position and public property? Heroes can’t die, there is nothing overly interesting in seeing them face death because they will survive, generation after generation talks of them and passes on the myth. But the person behind the mask, they are just as terrifyingly fragile as those who seek to raise them above their mortality. 

“I _know_ , Ron, and I'm not saying that the Healers assessment, in this case, is correct. Just — do you think I could get a look at his file? I need to know what we are dealing with.” 

Of course, Granger thinks she’ll find something they all have missed. Nathaniel stifles a heavy sigh. They _always_ think that, citing the few books they read or the case study or — his absolute favourite — that one super risky and highly hypothetical new idea they heard introduced and speculated about somewhere. 

Nathaniel understands their motivation, the need to do something and be useful, grappling for some semblance of control and safety, but it’s still annoying. There is a reason studying medicine takes as long as it does, and reading a few books simply doesn’t give you the necessary knowledge, nothing close to it. They scrape the surface, gather enough understanding to vaguely comprehend what is being talked about but not enough to see why these miraculous new ideas are dangerous at best but more often than not doomed to fail. They think being Healer is nothing but a job, that Healers are bored and only go through the motions, that they wouldn’t know about new developments because they don’t bother keeping up after getting their license, so obviously the only way to ensure their loved ones are getting the best medicine can offer, they have to do their own research. 

It’s insulting, no matter how much Nathaniel can understand the instinct, but there is only so often that he can explain to people that no, that isn’t possible and yes he is sure, because he actually studied this and read that particular theory months ago, read the discussions about it and gave more than a just a few of his free minutes to thinking about it and ultimately it was decided to be highly likely to end in the death of the patient, too likely to make the risk worth it. 

That is something else people can’t properly judge, the risk. They think it’s all worth it, every desperate attempt, anything to get the patients back as close to their previous state, the defined ‘normal’, as possible. They don’t understand that sometimes, that goal simply isn’t realistic, that a 5% chance of it working means they are likely part of the 95% who can only pray there won’t be any results at all because they would be far from desirable. Everyone thinks _they_ are one of the lucky few, that for _them_ it will work, has to work. They delude themselves long enough until they can say it with conviction because this hope is the only thing that keeps them going. 

“You aren’t going to tell me to let him die, are you? Because I heard it all, that I'm cruel and selfish and should consider Harry’s needs instead of my own, and I don’t know what I would do should you decided there is no hope left for him, but you won’t like it, I can promise you that.” Nathaniel doesn’t need to see Malfoy to know what he looks like, the narrowed eyes and the cold certainty written all over him, a threat despite the vague wording. Malfoy is not a man to cross; you can see that quickly, especially where Potter is concerned. 

“No, Draco, I won’t say any of that. I want to figure out how to help Harry, how to help both of you.” Granger sounds more exasperated than intimidated, which is rather impressive. But then, Granger is an impressive woman in general, misguided medical aspirations aside, Nathaniel didn’t expect her to cower in front of anyone. 

“Fine, I suppose you could ask one of the nurses. They all either hate me or are scared of me, tell them I authorised you to access his information and you shouldn’t have any problems. Thank you, Hermione.” That much is true, Malfoy worked hard to get himself the reputation that crossing him would end very, very badly. Nothing fatal, mind, nothing that uninspired, but much worse than that. No one had the guts to try him and find the words behind the unspoken threat yet. 

There is some shuffling, the conversation passing into non-verbal territory after Malfoy’s threat and thanks (not something Nathaniel would wager he does often, expressing his gratitude, probably used to getting what he wants without having to follow the rules of politeness everyone else has to live by; the casual carelessness of wealth is not something that just fades, not even over a war) and Nathaniel assumes there is hugging between Weasley and Granger (or are they married? Nathaniel really ought to have kept up with the gossip more!) and possibly nodding in Malfoy’s reaction, who Nathaniel cannot for the life of him imagine as very tactile, the few people Nathaniel saw allowed to touch being more of an exception than the norm. 

The pause is alarmingly long, however, and Nathaniel begins to think that he misjudged what is going on and itching to get a look inside, when Granger walks out of the door, determination etched on her face over the pain. She walks past Nathaniel, assuming him here by coincident and not because Potter is his patient, which he is grateful for. He doesn’t want to have to argue with Granger about handing her confidential information they legally aren’t allowed to give out for any reason. 

“How are you holding up?” Weasley calls his attention back from the poor soul doomed to trying to stop Granger, his voice quiet in the rapidly falling silence of Granger’s departure. Malfoy scoffs at him. 

“I hardly think we have to concern ourselves with _my_ health here.” Malfoy is back to his closed-off cold, keeping Weasley along with everyone else far away from his inner struggle, now that he has a plan of what to do next. He doesn’t like it, the waiting and hoping for Granger to find the miracle cure he doesn’t fully believe is there, but it’s all he can do right now, so he clings to it. 

People do the oddest things out of despair, and hope is even more dangerous. Nathaniel is just glad all Malfoy’s actions seem to be turned inward. 

“No, I think I really have to. See, there isn’t a whole lot I can do for Harry at the moment. Hermione is looking at his file and going to pore over some books and then we’ll see what she finds, yeah? I can’t help there, but I _can_ make sure that Harry doesn’t wake up only to have to sit vigil at _your_ sickbed because you let yourself waste away while fretting over him. So, I ask again, how are you faring?” Weasley makes a good point there, Malfoy should listen to him. 

People are quick to dismiss whoever stands around the hospital bed, too consumed by their own emotions to consider there might be others who share them, who spent too much time sitting at that bedside and need someone who tells them to go home, to remind them they are a person in need of care, too. Sickbeds can be incredibly lonely places like that. 

Malfoy, either not knowing what to answer or plain not _wanting_ to answer, doesn’t say anything. 

“Come on, Draco, talk to me? Or I could call Pansy, if you want, I could literally get anyone else here for you to talk to, but you are going to have to talk to someone.” As justified and surprisingly insightful as Weasley’s concerns might be, it’s highly unlikely that Malfoy will listen to him. 

“There is nothing to talk about,” Malfoy snaps, just like Nathaniel predicted. Idly, he wonders if Malfoy truly doesn’t think there is anything that needs talking about or if he is just too entangled in it to _do_ it. 

“Right, I don’t believe that for a second. Here’s what we’ll do: you are going to go home — no, don’t protest, I promised Harry a long time ago that I would take care of you should something happen, so I will and I don’t care if you like it or not — you are going to go home and eat something that is not hospital food, take a shower and then you are going to sleep, five hours minimum. Understood?” Weasley’s tone brooks no argument, so of course, Malfoy argues. 

“But Harry —” A standard excuse, anything that means they don’t have to go out there and face the world after holing up with their pain and grief in here for so long. They are genuinely concerned, Nathaniel doesn’t question _that_ , they never would have stuck around if they weren’t, but there is a point when they start staying for themselves, too, because it’s easier than facing the wide outdoors alone, because that feels like admitting defeat. 

Weasley is having none of it. 

“Harry will be right here when you get back. I’ll be here the entire time, I won’t let them take him, I promise.” 

That’s the issue, isn’t it? Malfoy still fears someone would sneak in to steal Potter the very second he leaves the room, as if they are all just lying in wait for a chance. It’s somewhat offensive, that he would think them so callous, but he isn’t entirely wrong either. 

No one would kidnap Potter, of course not, but Nathaniel has no doubt someone is going to have a serious talk with Weasley after Malfoy left, testing the waters and see if he is more open to the idea than Malfoy. From what Nathaniel heard so far, he doesn’t think that conversation will go over well. He supposes a certain … ruthlessness is required in their field, watching death and suffering in their unforgiving march forwards, knowing intimately the pain of losing yet another life

“I don’t ... I don’t think, I don’t want to be — we don’t have food at home.” Malfoy is stalling, reaching for excuses. It’s not obvious, Nathaniel couldn’t pinpoint what makes him so sure of this, but he knowns nonetheless. Perhaps because this, what Malfoy is trying hard not to exhibit here, is so very common it breaks his heart: Malfoy doesn’t want to go home, because he doesn’t want to be alone. Loneliness is something that intrudes often, here especially, and while essentially Malfoy is still alone when he is holding the cold hands of his husband, he can delude himself into thinking he is not. 

“Of course, why would you — you basically lived in this hospital for the last weeks. Okay, so you are going to stay here, say goodbye to Harry for now, and I go call Pansy to collect you. I can trust Pansy to force you into sleeping and eating, right?” Nathaniel doesn’t know for sure, but Malfoy didn’t have many visitors and if Weasley refers to who Nathaniel thinks of — the woman who forced him to eat and change his clothes — he is confident that she could make him do pretty much anything, even more so when she is worried about him. 

“I’m — yes, yes you can. She’s a tyrant,” Malfoy says, tone a peculiar mixture of fear and fondness, and Nathaniel is now sure they are all thinking of the same woman. 

“That’s what I thought. Alright, be right back.” Weasley sounds pleased with himself, rightfully so, and he doesn’t leave any room for argument. 

“Ronald!” Malfoy isn’t stopped by that, calling out for Weasley who already started to walk away. “Thank you, for — well, this, being here.” 

The words fall heavy and profound in the ensuing silence, meaningful far beyond what Nathaniel can understand. One thing is clear to even him though: Malfoy isn’t the type to express his gratitude often. Weasley doesn’t quite seem to know how to react to it, allowing the silence to grow and stretch between them before collecting himself. 

“No problem, we all have to stick together, yeah? We’ll get through this, just you wait. Harry is tough, you know that, and whatever it is that got him here, we aren’t going to let it win.” He seriously believes that; the realisation hits Nathaniel like a brick. Most reassurances of this kind ring hollow, empty words to say something into the oppressing quiet of stagnation, long since devoid of fervour and trust. 

Malfoy doesn’t sound comforted, making an odd choking sound instead. Which is … interesting. 

“It’s me, I am what got him here. He wanted to, protect me, I think, save me, and then he —” Guilt, Nathaniel _knew_ it was guilt that kept him hesitating for so long before rooting himself to Potter’s side. He would have loved to hear more, hear Malfoy’s thoughts articulated to someone else and not just thought out loud into an empty room, but Weasley interrupts him before he can get much further. 

“Hey, no, none of that. There’s something burrowed in his mind, remember? _That_ is what got him here, not you. Harry has always been a bit stupid when it comes to the people he loves, a bit overeager to protect us, but now it’s our turn to protect him, okay? We are going to save him Draco, he’s not going to die.” Weasley still sounds utterly convinced, so very certain of himself and the promises he makes, but Malfoy sounds like he is muffling tears. 

Nathaniel definitely needs to _see_ them now, needs to know what is going on beyond what he can piece together from sound alone. They are probably too occupied with themselves by now to notice him anyway, if he is careful enough. He has enough experience doing it. He should be fine, undiscovered and in prime position to do some observing. That is what Nathaniel tells himself, at least, inching forward with his heart beating high in his throat. 

“Oh no, don’t, don’t do that. It’ will be alright, it will all be fine again. Come here —” Nathaniel moved just fast enough to see Weasley take Malfoy by the arms, pulling him against his chest and holding him close. It should be awkward, Nathaniel is sure of that, but after a few tense seconds Malfoy relaxes into Weasley's arms, letting himself go and all but falling onto Weasley. 

Thankfully Weasley seems to have expected that (a common habit, perhaps, for Malfoy to wear himself thin until someone who knows him well enough to have earnt his trust and see the signs to give him that final push into surrender) and he catches him easily, gathering him up and holding him steady as Malfoy quietly cries and hides his face. 

“Harry will be fine, he is incapable of dying, he’ll be fine,” Weasley whispers, low and fierce and mostly muffled by Malfoy's hair but clear enough to make out regardless. 

Nathaniel watches them stand like that, clinging to each other in their grief, nothing to ground them but their shared pain. Human touch is quite the powerful thing, oftentimes underestimated in its importance and potency. Comfort, he always thought, is much better conveyed over touch than words. What even are words in the end, just clever little tricks, smoke and mirrors, as likely a lie as a truth. Touch though, touch doesn’t promise you anything but that you aren’t alone, that there is someone there to catch you when you stumble. A simple thing expressed in a simple gesture, a profession of love much more meaningful than those ridiculous three words could ever be. 

This is just another proof of how crucial positive physical contact is. Granted, they might not share romantic love, but no one ever said touching, even the prolonged and intimate sort, is reserved solely for romantic partners, did they? (Well, actually, plenty of people are deluded enough to believe that, who think friends shouldn’t touch beyond a few points of contact, commonly considered superficial enough to be strictly friendly, but that doesn’t make it any truer.) Whatever these two are to each other, how much they can stand each other outside of life-threatening situations, they are there when it counts, neither of them speaking but both saying so much. 

“Did you want to call Pansy?” Malfoy smothers his words against Weasley, tears still clogging his throat even though he seems to be done crying. He makes no move to distance himself though, nothing that would indicate he _wants_ to leave just yet. 

“In a moment. Right now I'm still here.” And thus they will remain for quite some time, Nathaniel is certain of it. As much as he would like to stay and stand witness, he does have a job to do, he can’t afford to watch people hug all day. He’ll be back later, to check if Malfoy left and he will undoubtedly have heard some more from Granger before the day is over. He is not looking forward to that experience. 

* * *

Malfoy does indeed disappear after that. Nathaniel notices later, passing Potter’s room to find only Weasley, babbling on about Quidditch. Nervous ramblings, anything to fill the silence and push away the unwelcome truth it brings. He only hopes Potter is a fan of Quidditch, or Weasley might be drastically lowering the chances of Potter deciding fighting his way out of the coma is worth his effort. 


	3. Chapter 3

Nathaniel runs through the corridors, evading colleagues and visitors alike and using the stairs instead of the elevator because they are faster. He uses all his experience rushing through these floors to patients needing immediate attention, exploits every hidden shortcut and puts on the demeanour of someone on a Mission, someone who should not be stopped. He is good at it, at least, which means he will be there soon, is almost there already, but nonetheless, he is late, fatally late. 

This wasn't supposed to happen, not today and maybe not for a few months yet. That was the only reason Nathaniel was on the other end of the hospital at all, no one expected any drastic changes in the condition of Harry Potter. 

You see, Nathaniel likes to stay close to his patients. It makes sense from a professional point of view — the shorter the distance the quicker he can be there — but also his less professional investment in the human interactions happening at the bedside. It's easy enough arranged, the worst he has ever gotten for his peculiarities some teasing of his paranoid worries and the occasional wink when the patient in question was judged attractive enough to inspire an infatuation. This time though, Nathaniel found himself far away when rumours spread through the hospital like wildfire, a whisper about Potter. Nathaniel ran. 

He arrives to a crowd, subtle and mostly everyone is pretending to have something important to do that keeps them, but in reality, they are all just loitering, hoping to catch a glimpse. It's already a spectacle, drawing people like sharks that caught traces of blood in the water. Sensationalism, that's the word, greedy and eager for the highs and lows of humanity to play out for them to judge. (Frankly, Nathaniel can't confidently claim to be much better, but he at least has a very valid reason to be here — Potter is _his_ patient, after all. And by the looks of it, medical attention is in dire need.) 

Nathaniel moves through the gawkers, very aware of the jealous frowns he is getting, and closes the door in their faces. There, complete privacy, just what Potter needs right now. 

"You, nurse, check his vitals again," Malfoy demands, snapping his fingers at Nathaniel without even doing him the courtesy of looking away from Potter, his movements frantic and jerky. 

Not how you are supposed to treat people, sure, but this is remarkable — and thus acceptable because there are other things to dwell on than the affront — for one very simple fact: Nathaniel can count the times he saw Malfoy lose the tight hold over his projected composure on one hand. The only reason he knows the man even still cares about his husband are the nightly conversations he sometimes hears parts of, when Malfoy thinks there is no one around to witness his vulnerability, to discover what he so masterfully hides. It's thrilling, seeing Malfoy in such an uproar, all his concerns about poise and propriety forgotten and his entire being focused on Potter. 

It’s not the first time Nathaniel saw the usually-more-reserved-relative choke up on their emotions, that he was there when they finally break to reveal the very same human chore they so vehemently denied and often even mocked. Nathaniel doubts it will be the last time, either. It’s one of his favourite moments. Getting emotions out of someone this stoic always feels like the glimpse at a treasure, one Nathaniel stands no hope of ever learning but for one moment he can bask in its glow, can feel the power of it coursing through him. 

The Healers already left again, nothing more they can do here, so Nathaniel has all the time and space he could need to take a good look at the scene unfolding before him. 

At first glance, there is nothing at all outstanding, everything very close to what he pictured when he listened to Malfoy's pleas and confessions. These moments are first and foremost always shaped by these giant emotions cloying the room, by the feeling of watching something intensely private. There was a tenderness to them, something warm and soft passed between them, their love not always spoken but evident in the very air nonetheless. Sometimes Malfoy's words were muffled, pressed too close against Potter's skin or buried in his hair too quickly for Nathaniel to make them out completely. 

That's the kind of love everyone strives for in life — intimacy strong and steady, so accustomed to each other that companionship fits like a well-worn glove, lined with private smiles and fond memories, a certainty built on hardship weathered together and sorrows faced. It's not what you hear in the stories, perfect miracles and soulmates, the one person who fits you and completes you, the toxic expectations you are fed from the unthinking ways fairy tales are told. No, it's the kind of love that hurts, that you need to fight for, people with ragged edges and hidden pitfalls that mould their forms together, that decide to give this miraculous sentiment a chance and throw themselves in with all they have and are. 

That love is still there, hangs heavy over all their heads, but this moment is different. This feels fragile, on the brink of breaking, as if one wrong movement could shatter it all. 

Malfoy is a mess, his hair hanging in his face and ruffled by hands ran through it, though Malfoy doesn't seem to notice or care, his only acknowledgement the annoyed shakes of his head when a strand of it falls over his eyes. His hands flutter over Potter's form, never settling anywhere but ghosting over everything, as if making sure that everything is still there, wanting to reach out and touch but not certain how. He is also crying, tears glistening on his face and his breathing shallow. 

Potter's eyes are open, for the first time that Nathaniel saw in person, deep green clouded, staring up at nothing. 

Not uncommon for patients just fighting their way out of the deep magical coma Potter was put under, but Nathaniel never got used to the sight. Then Potter blinks, hazy eyes clearing, and Nathaniel feels a weight lift off of his shoulders — Potter is awake. 

Malfoy doesn't notice, cradling Potter's head in his hands and blinking through his tears, so it's only when Potter quirks his lips in a tired smile that Malfoy realises he is back again. Potter was awake before, of course, these are just minor episodes of spacing out that all pass relatively quickly, but the sheer relief on Malfoy's face makes it seem like this is the first sign of life his husband showed since being admitted here. He doesn't stop crying, might start in earnest now, but they are happy tears now (such a ridiculous term, all tears mean is an overflow of emotion, too much pressure weighing down on the mind and feeling too strongly — absolutely anything can make you cry if you have enough of it) and he grips Potter tighter, reassured that he is not going to break under his hands. He drops a kiss on Potter's forehead, the gesture so fond and intimate that Nathaniel aches watching, acutely aware he is only seeing this because they completely forgot about his presence.

Of course, Malfoy being Malfoy, the sweetness of the moment can’t last for long, and sooner than either of them can have wanted he pulls away — not far, Nathaniel notes, just enough to put some space between them so he can properly glare without having to give up on the contact. Potter either hasn’t noticed the shift or knows something that Nathaniel doesn’t (both equally likely, coma can do weird things to your perception, but he also married that man so it stands to reason that he knows him as well as you can know another person) but he doesn’t appear worried, smiling serenely up at Malfoy, his arms still slung around his torso, keeping him close. 

"You bloody git, don't you dare scare me like that again." The words lack bite, not coming out as sharp as Malfoy undoubtedly wanted them to. They are sincere though, more of a plea than a threat perhaps, but sincere. 

Nathaniel knows this kind of conversation; when they are torn between elation because their loved ones have returned to them and the lingering pain, the fear and worry that shaped their every moment waiting, keeping them trembling on that precipice, neither falling nor quite finding their footing. This is the moment when they stand again, not far enough away from the possible fall to forget about it just yet but steady enough to let their guard down, to make way for the breathless laughter of relief. 

"Sorry, love, zoned out for a bit." Potter, who is blissfully unaware of the danger he was in, stands no chance at properly appreciating the torment Malfoy underwent in staying with him and subsequently can’t judge that this is not quite the time to joke, that Malfoy is far less able to take his teasing than the husband he remembers. 

As predicted, Malfoy’s grip on Potter’s face tightens to a level that cannot possibly be comfortable anymore. Malfoy is falling, the hope he clung to finally fulfilled and going up in reality, leaving him to flounder, uncertain what to do and how to react, what to focus on. Nathaniel imagines it must have been easier with Potter unconscious, when there was nothing to do but to believe that he would get better, any doubts ruthlessly pushed aside in favour of focusing on this one goal, everything discarded with the intention of dealing with it later, when Potter is better and the world is bigger again, not just the monotone rise and fall of his chest. _This_ is the unspecified later, when Malfoy suddenly needs to take actions and have opinions, when he has to deal with people and expectations and the world pressing in on all sides. In some cruel ways, he almost wishes Potter back into his coma, back when things were simple. 

He doesn’t, not really, because whatever else has changed, it also brought him Potter back. It doesn’t take much to recognise that, given the choice, he would take Potter and all the chaos and confusion that comes with loving him over the strict clarity of waiting. 

Doesn’t make it easier, though, love never does. 

"You — Potter, I thought you _died_. You can't just —" Malfoy breaks off, sobs smothered with nothing but sheer will and the refusal to shed any more tears, the resolve to be grateful for what he has and focus on that. If only it were that easy. 

"Potter, hm? Am I in trouble?" Potter keeps underestimating the seriousness of the situation, going for light-hearted banter when what Malfoy needs is some reassurance, some sort of promise that this won’t happen again, hollow as that promise might be. Malfoy doesn’t yet remember how to act normally, and Potter’s instance on it makes him feel alone than when Potter was wholly unresponsive. At least then they had the same goal, or Malfoy could pretend they had. But this — neither of them quite knows how to do right be the other. 

"I don't even — yes! Yes, you are in trouble! You were in a _coma_ , Harry, you hadn't looked at me for weeks before that and stopped telling me things even sooner, and then you go and —" Malfoy can’t stop crying anymore, tripping over desperate gulps of air and unable to keep talking. 

That is perfectly untestable, Nathaniel would be overwhelmed, too. It’s Malfoy’s guilt again, wresting itself to the front from wherever Malfoy banned it to. It all comes crashing down on him now, every emotion Malfoy didn’t have the capacity to deal with and shoved somewhere deep into his subconscious. But there is no excuse to postpone and suppress them anymore, nothing bigger to hold on to and save himself from drowning. There is only Potter, awake and well again, and the mess of the emotions he compels. 

At least Potter finally seems to cotton on to the problem, finally sees the conflict whirling inside his husband and that Malfoy stands no chance of dealing with the overload of sensation on his own. It’s not fair of course, Potter just came awake from basically death and now he is expected to hold his husband together when the cracks had such a long time to burrow deep, dangerously close to shattering Malfoy like brittle china. Neither of them was prepared for this moment, much as they yearned for it. Even the most pleasant of realities is harsher than the sweet purity of dreams. 

"Draco, love, don't cry, I'm sorry." Potter gently wipes Malfoy's tears away, moulding his hands to hold his head and look him right in the eyes, murmuring words too low for Nathaniel to make out. The pain is evident in his voice, guilt and shame and hurt, speaking of his love and his apologies. 

He doesn’t understand what is going on in Malfoy, couldn’t possibly without having all the details of his condition and just how long Malfoy lived on nothing but stale hope, how low everyone gauged his chances and what kind of words came up more and more, but he realised that Malfoy needs support and that is all he needs to know. 

"I'm not crying! You take that back!" Malfoy _is_ crying, no amount of protestation could hide that, but Potter wisely chooses not to point that out. Instead, he shushes Malfoy and pulls him down onto the bed (more onto himself than on the bed really, but with the moving difficulties than can be expected after a coma such as Potter's. It’s difficult to tell where exactly he wanted Malfoy, not that either of them seems to terribly mind the position they landed in), holding him close and finally grants him the shelter Malfoy so desperately sought, hiding him away from the world and the things waiting there for them. 

They will be fine, now. They didn’t resolve anything, didn’t even start on any of the Talk they will need to have, but they are here, together, and together they will find their way back, Nathaniel has no doubts. 

* * *

Nathaniel observed the room carefully, took notes and meticulously catalogued everything, so he feels confident in saying that never before a room filled up this quickly with presents and cards and whatever nonsense people deem appropriate to express their joy and well-wishes. There are flowers and food and stuffed animals and Nathaniel dreads stepping in there almost as much as having to tell Malfoy he can stop packing their bags because they aren’t quite leaving yet. 

News of Potter’s recovery travelled fast, as one would expect them to, and it took only a few hours until every friend and family member stood crowded in the little room to fuss over him and chastise him for making them worry in the first place (alright, that one was mostly the Weasley matriarch, but she left quite the impression on Nathaniel ) and they all left assorted knickknacks, mostly useless and unnecessary when they themselves were already here to profess their affections. 

Malfoy and Potter weathered them bravely, accepting the congratulations and the scolding, listened to the well-meant advice and agreed to the issued dinner invitations, smiles getting more and more strained and both of them visibly relieved when Nathaniel invented some kind of policy that forced their overbearing visitors to leave sooner than they had any designs of doing on their own accord. They are wrung out, neither of them used to having much company lately, and those were only people they love coming to celebrate with them. They haven’t so much as seen a reporter yet, let alone given a statement or sparked a national debate about whatever it is they will find to crack a drama about. 

It’s probably for the best that they will have to stay here for a bit more, little as they might agree on that. 

“What do you mean, you need to keep him for observation?” Malfoy asks, that icy fury Nathaniel is already far too familiar with creeping back into his voice. 

What exactly is he supposed to answer to that? It’s not a difficult concept to understand. He means what he said, that Potter’s status can’t be judged for sure and no one quite knows what they are dealing with or how Potter recovered, _what_ even he recovered from. The only sensible thing to do is to keep him here for at least a few more days, they have the resources to monitor shifts in his condition and to help should he get worse again. Of course, that’s a possibility Malfoy doesn’t want to think about, that Potter might not be as healthy as he seems and could keel over any second. They are always in such a rush to deny death after close calls such as this. 

Still, fascinating as the reaction might be, Nathaniel is first and foremost a nurse and he swore to fight for and protect every life that makes its way into his hospital. Potter is his responsibility, no matter what Malfoy might have to say about that, and it’s not safe for Potter to leave. 

“Unfortunately, we are unable to determine Mr. Potter’s condition and thus we cannot in good conscience release him into your care. At this point, we can neither say what caused the wounds to his soul, nor how they might be repaired, if they can be repaired at all. They might not give you any further problem or they might evoke a relapse. In short: we don’t know much with any certainty and strongly recommend that Mr. Potter stays here, where we are best equipped to handle any changes in his medical situation.” It’s a hated script Nathaniel is expected to rattle down, polite and obliging and always understating the sever danger the patients could manoeuvre themselves into. 

If Nathaniel were free to say what he wanted, he would make it very clear that removing Potter right now would not just be _unwise_ but plain stupid, the frightened instinct to run away until they collapse to die somewhere far off any help. It makes sense that they want to leave, really, this is where the illusions of invulnerability and immortality came crashing down, where the blind trust in an endless future of health and happiness was challenged. It might have been nothing but a vague image, more the refusal to think of death and sickness than the wilful delusion of being impervious to the shadows of life, but now it’s cracked all the same, and the instinctive reaction is to duck back down into the comfortable domesticity and denial they were so happy in. 

It wouldn’t work, of course, it wouldn’t. They are aware of it now, the looming end, the dangers lurking everywhere, and there is no going back. But Malfoy doesn’t know that, or he is determined to try nonetheless, arrogant enough to think he can care for Potter and his possible deficits on his own. Hubris, plain and simple. It brought down many great people before him, swept them up in the triumph of beating the coma and instilling them with false confidence that they can beat anything after this, but Nathaniel has no intention of sacrificing his patient to human insolence. 

“That’s a very polite way of saying you want to exploit his fame and the unique medical situation to experiment on him and publish some sensationalist paper clamouring for attention,” Malfoy spits, looking at Nathaniel like he is some disgusting bug he wants to crush under his heel. Nathaniel doesn’t know where he has this frankly ridiculous idea from, but he never handled disdain well, whether directed at him as a person or if he is just the unlucky messenger. 

“I can assure you; we value our patients’ privacy. You might have noticed the lack of reporters and concerned fans during your stay here? Do you honestly think they just didn’t care as long as Mr. Potter was in his coma?” Nathaniel could go on, _would_ go on until he made sure he got himself fired from his job and one very powerful enemy (which might be a bit self-important, he probably isn’t important enough for Malfoy to actively ruin his life after this, but if Nathaniel is going to anger him, he better do it properly and with grand style) were it not for Potter. 

Granted, Potter is much more focused on Malfoy, but Nathaniel, as always, can’t look away from the way they interact with each other. Potter has his hand closed around Malfoy’s wrist, such a tiny gesture and still weak from the coma, but he might just as well have stunned Malfoy for the devastating effect it has. Potter has large hands, not as elegant or delicate as Malfoy’s but blunter, hands made for holding, his skin dark and in strong contrast to the pale whiteness of Malfoy, wrapped around the frail bones protruding from his bones, thumb circling and pressing on Malfoy’s pulse. It’s not even meant for Nathaniel, not meant for anyone but Malfoy, but he is mesmerised all the same. 

Nathaniel watches Potter tap out a rhythm and Malfoy zero in on that, focuses all his attention to the point where they are touching, where they are connected, his breathing calming and matching the tapping of Potter’s thumb. It shouldn’t be this alluring, not for Nathaniel, who has virtually no connection to the bond between them, but without even noticing, he himself adepts his breathing to theirs. 

“How long do you want me to stay?” Potter asks, and it takes Nathaniel unseemly long to realise the question is meant for _him_. 

“We can’t say at this point, unfortunately. As I said, we need to do some tests and —” Right now, Nathaniel would be grateful for a little more script. Potter is the one making decisions here, that much is clear, and his decision depends on Nathaniel 's answers to his questions. If he gives an answer Potter doesn’t like, they are out of here and there is nothing that could stop them, Nathaniel is horribly sure of that. He wishes he knew the right words. 

“That’s not very specific. I can possibly be persuaded to one more week, if you meet my conditions.” Potter’s green eyes bore into him, pinning him to the spot and extracting an agreement before Nathaniel could make up his mind to nod. “You propose every test you want to do and give Draco and I time to discuss in private if we consent to it or not. Draco will be staying with me, so we will need a bigger bed for us both to fit more comfortably. After the week is up, you won’t be trying to convince me to stay longer. Unless you find anything in your tests that means I'm a danger to myself or others, we’ll be free to leave. Understood?” 

Nathaniel nods again, very aware that the terms Potter laid out won’t please anyone but too elated that he got them to stay for some more tests to care particularly much. Now he only hopes they don’t find anything they need to worry over. 

“And no more hospital food, I demand the right to have take-away delivered!” Malfoy pipes up, getting impertinent now that Potter swung his weight around. He does make a fair point; however, Nathaniel totally understands the conspiracy theories about hospital food poisoning people to grow more patients. 

“Provided your condition doesn’t worsen none of that should be a problem. Except for the food, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Sorry.” Nathaniel is not sorry, not at all, because he doesn’t like Malfoy’s tone and isn’t in the habit of obliging arrogant bastards, understandably elated over the return of his husband as they might be. 

See, this is why he usually keeps to _watching_ people, interacting with them as little as possible. They are most irritating once they are aware of him, expecting answers and certain actions and growing unpleasant when Nathaniel takes too long to please them. He doesn’t want to dwell on that, on how most people are only worth knowing in the abstract, but sometimes people just force him to acknowledge their personal unlikable natures. 

Before Malfoy can lunge at him — he looks like he would, glaring at Nathaniel as he is — Potter pulls him down onto the bed with a sharp tug to his wrist, making him stumble and fall over himself in a graceless heap. Nathaniel might not so subtly be laughing at him. 

“I thought you said they are all deathly afraid of you?” Potter asks Malfoy, a teasing lilt to his voice and smiling softly, watching as Malfoy scrambles for his composure like a disgruntled kitten. 

“They are, I'm very fearsome.” The kitten imagery grows stronger, now leaning closer to the chubby grumpy ones that hiss at everyone and still manage to look adorable, melting into a purring puddle when you pet them just right. 

“Of course, you are, my love. Just look at the poor man, shaking in his boots.” Potter gestures at him, deftly pointing out that Nathaniel is a) still there and listening to their every word and b) indeed shaking in his boots trying to suppress his laughter. Malfoy scowls at both of them. 

“I defended you viciously, you should be grateful.” Nathaniel isn’t sure if Malfoy is sulking or fishing for praise, but either way, this is not going in any direction he wants to witness. High time to subtly sneak out. 

“Come on, don’t mope. I’m safe now that the worst is over, alright? You defended me valiantly.” _Definitely_ not something he wants to witness, saccharine sweet nothings made worse by the fact that, if you asked Nathaniel, Potter might just be a little too optimistic in his assessment of their situation. 

* * *

Nathaniel hates saying ‘I told you so’, but, well, he _did_ tell them. Souls are fickle things, hugely unexplored and incomprehensible to the human mind, damages to the soul can be fatal in far smaller a scale than Potter’s bitten-out chunks. And he warned them, every time they declined a test they deemed too invasive and when they protested the constant check-up. Souls are unpredictable, he said, and he could tell that they didn’t believe him. 

“What do you mean, he doesn’t remember _anything_?” Nathaniel sighs. Malfoy screeching in his face, barley making concessions in volume to the closed door standing between them and Potter, is the absolute last thing Nathaniel wanted to deal with. 

Malfoy was the one who realised first, of course, being practically glued to his side as he had been, making up for the time Potter spent unconscious and pointedly ignoring what got them here in the first place, talking about pleasant trivialities. People do that, push the stuff they ought to talk about back because it’s too hard, too complicated, too big. It never serves them well, though Nathaniel can’t claim one of them plain forgetting his entire life is a rather extreme reaction to human foolishness. 

“Mr. Malfoy, I’m sure you remember that we talked about possible violent reactions to some of the tests?” Only one of many explanations, and not one Nathaniel wanted to plant in Malfoy’s brain, but what the man needs above all right now is an explanation, something to hold on to after losing his husband _again_. Eventually, he would have had to bring up the tests anyway, it’s protocol. 

“ _You_ did this to him? I should have known, that’s why you were so insistent on Harry staying longer, isn’t it? That’s why you pushed for more and more, told us how vital and non-intrusive the tests would be, how they could save his life. Well, look at him now and tell me, what kind of life is it you saved?” Malfoy is the human embodiment of hysteria, more so than anyone else Nathaniel has ever seen. He hasn’t slept in far too long, eyes burning and red-rimmed from crying and too much caffeine, clothes rumpled and dirty, hair a wild mess standing up in all direction. He looks like he comes off a week partying with no sleep, but instead with drugs and alcohol and groping hands. Or perhaps like a student, studying for the most important exam of his life, hanging on only through coffee and desperation. Either way, it’s not a pretty sight. 

Potter, in comparison to his husband, almost looks serene. He sits in his bed, idly leafing through one of the books Granger brought but his mind miles away. Nathaniel has no idea what he is thinking of, if he is searching for a memory, looking to see if he knows anything about who he is or why he is here, or if he just thinks about lunch. It’s impossible to gauge the priorities of amnesia patients, he learnt that early on. The person he knew, the person Malfoy loved, isn’t the one currently sitting on that bed, a simple fact often overlooked. They don’t know this Potter, don’t know what is important to him or what his most burning questions are, what he thinks about the blond man that had to be escorted out of the room when he became too erratic to safely be allowed in there, if he thinks about him at all. 

They are an odd pair, always have been, but now there is nothing connecting them. Before, when Potter would laugh at something that Malfoy said, when Malfoy would tolerate Potter’s hands in his hair and smile at him with a soft affection, they seemed to bend the world to their will, write their own rules and making it make sense. They never seemed out of place in each other’s orbit. Except now they do, Potter backing away from Malfoy’s hands reaching out, nothing on his face but wary distrust, and Malfoy lost without him, gutted and devastate and so achingly _lost_. 

He wanted to bring in their photo albums, show Potter what it is he can’t remember in the faint hope that it will spark a memory, break some wall inside Potter’s mind that will make all his thoughts flood back in and fill that empty shell of a body. They couldn’t allow that, of course, too risky. Potter is fragile right now, though he might not look it, and Malfoy clutching the remnants of their love and looking at him with imploring eyes, accusing him without even fully meaning to, is the last thing he needs. Honestly, if Malfoy himself spilling the details — telling him frantically who he is and who Potter is and about the cat they wanted to adopt, about the friends due to arrive soon and the last day he would have had to spend at the hospital before going home — didn’t nudge anything in Potter, a bunch of old pictures are unlikely to be more effective. 

He isn’t going home now, of course. Nathaniel isn’t sure if Malfoy realised that already or if he hadn’t had the time to think past the immediate implications of being a loud and sobbing stranger to the man he loves and dedicated his life to. He is probably still stuck on that one, it usually takes them a while to come to terms with that kind of thing. 

As for the value of Potter’s life, well, that’s the truly interesting bit, isn’t it? Objectively, his life isn’t worth more or less now than it was before, not according to the ideals everyone pretends to strive for. Every life is worth the same, is worth fighting for and saving and giving a chance for educating and development. A nice aphorism, no doubt, Nathaniel just worked too long here to believe it anymore. 

Fact is, you have to make priorities. That’s just how it is, time is limited and though you may claim to care about everyone unequivocally and without increments, it’s not possible. It’s a lie, a feeble and exhausting one. In the end it’s simple, when faced with two people suffering and you can only help one of them, you choose the one you know, the one you love more. And just like that, you made a difference in value. Personal value, to only yourself and not terribly important on the grander scheme of things, but you still chose.

Potter’s life, being not the person Malfoy loves and wanted to save, just fell in value. He might feel better now (Nathaniel doesn’t actually know, he didn’t have a chance to go in and check before he was accosted like this) and have a bright and stable future ahead of him, but he is not the person Malfoy wanted. If given the chance, Malfoy would exchange the two of them in a heartbeat, Nathaniel is sure of it. It’s quite selfish, of course, morally questionable at best, but that is humanity for you. 

“Amnesia isn’t an uncommon side-effect to magical comas, it usually isn’t of permanence,” Nathaniel states, leaving Malfoy to connect the dots. Technically he isn’t allowed to make any promises, can’t tell Malfoy that Potter will recover soon and be right as rain again because they simply cannot guarantee that, but he can heavily hint. It’s true enough, coma always leaves some ugly consequences and some of them are short-lived. It’s none of his business what hopes Malfoy might build on that fact. 

Malfoy looks at him, grey eyes focusing on Nathaniel for the first time this day, and Nathaniel almost regrets throwing him that lifeline. He is the one Malfoy will make responsible now, whether it would hold up in court or not, and if Potter doesn’t get better soon it’s his head Malfoy will demand. Not his problem yet, at this moment Malfoy still looks at him as if he stopped his world from breaking apart, stopped it shaking and teetering, and the risk seems worth it. And who knows, perhaps Potter’s mind will return to him. Stranger things have happened, and Nathaniel won’t be the one to tell Malfoy just how strange exactly that would be. 

* * *

The world changes when you aren’t looking, that’s what they say. Nathaniel has no idea if Malfoy knew that or, if he did, believed and understood it, but he certainly is living it these days. It makes him wonder how Malfoy can stand to leave Potter’s side at all, when all it ever seems to do is worsen his state. 

The first drastic change being Potter’s attempted suicide (alleged, Malfoy insists on that, although it’s perfectly clear for anyone with the faintest beginnings of common sense that there was nothing alleged about it, and mysterious dark powers making him do it doesn’t exactly hold up as an excuse) Nathaniel understands why Malfoy didn't so much as wriggle out of place during his coma. Weighted down by guilt and fear he sat there, hoping every day that Potter might wake up. And he did, wonder of wonders, and for one short moment it seemed like they might get out of this relatively unscathed, after some extensive therapy. 

But then Malfoy looked away, presumably packing their bags to go home, and when he turned back his husband was gone. Amnesia, such a nice word for a horrendous injustice. Of course, it has nothing to do with justice, even Malfoy, wailing and raging as he was, had to admit that. No, he never accused anyone of being unfair, of doing this on purpose out of a sadistic need for entertainment. Well, not after he realised he would do well to make himself likable, someone you would want to help. Magic is founded on belief, and if the healer casting the spell is preoccupied hating Malfoy for bullying them into doing yet another scan, well, it might affect the results without anyone even being aware of it. Malfoy behaved remarkable polite after that, begging them to save his husband and bring back Potter’s memory. 

Begging in terms of Draco Malfoy doesn’t mean what it might mean for anyone else, naturally, but Nathaniel himself was treated to more than one ‘please’, wobbly and close to breaking, and they shouldn’t be too harsh on the man. He is going through a lot, after all. That’s something easily forgotten here, where people are always suffering, everywhere, the individual pain of people. 

Whatever Malfoy’s asking should be classified as, it certainly wasn’t in vain. No sooner had Malfoy fallen asleep (finally, he had the ward terrorised with his panic) that his wish had been granted. Somehow Nathaniel doubts he will be too pleased about it. 

“Is that — is that seriously _Malfoy?_ What is going on here? Where is Ron, or Hermione?” Potter looks around, still disorientate from his nap and frantically searching the room for a friendly face, finding only Nathaniel and Malfoy, thankfully still sleeping. He has been asking a lot of questions, mostly answering them himself in the next breath, which says some wonderful things about his mental abilities. 

If Nathaniel were asked to guess, he would say Potter’s memory returned in his sleep, fitting back in seamlessly where it disappeared not hours before. It’s all a bit quick, loss and recovery of it, quite disorientating, but that is what happens when you tamper with souls, never a quiet moment. Potter seems to remember everything just fine, who he is and that he must have some sort of accident that landed in the hospital, the only thing that puzzles him is Malfoy’s presence. Which doesn’t bode well for his memory after all, and even worse for Malfoy. 

“What is _Malfoy_ doing here?” Finally, Potter directs the questions at Nathaniel, not the room in general. He looks down in disgust at where Malfoy lays slumped over the bed, head formerly resting on his lap, now unceremoniously shoved aside. Malfoy didn’t steer, exhausted to the bone as he must be. 

Small mercies, Nathaniel doesn’t think Malfoy would make this already complicated situation any smoother to navigate. Memories are tricky things; they require gentle touch and careful handling even if they are not scattered all over a torn soul. First, he should find out what Potter knows, what time he thinks they are in and what he holds to be true. Anything else — tactfully explaining to him how he married his schoolyard enemy, making him aware of the years he lost to the battered state his soul is in, asking him to make decisions on how he wants to precede — is better done once they know what exactly they are dealing with. 

“Harry?” Malfoy sits up like an overexcited puppy who caught a whiff of its master, all his attention immediately being eaten by Potter, who looks on in mild horror as Malfoy starts fussing over him. “Thank Circe, I almost feared you wouldn’t wake up again. How do you feel? What do you remember? Do you need anything?” 

“I need you to get off of me.” Potter roughly grabs Malfoy wandering hands, holding them as far away from him as possibly. He musters Malfoy with something fluctuating between bewilderment, curiosity and incredulity before landing on suspicion. 

“Harry?” Malfoy looks devastated, like someone pulled the ground out from beneath his feet. He knows, then, that Potter remembers him, and that he doesn’t like what he remembers. And all he can do is sit there, face his beloved husbands’ hatred and struggle to understand what is happening. 

Nathaniel had hoped he might spare him this humiliation, break the news to him with less general unpleasantness. He likes to think that it would have been easier on Malfoy, when he didn’t have the look on Potter’s face etched into his brain and had more time to prepare himself for a stint down their shared history. At least Potter didn’t notice their rings yet (a small miracle, considering how Malfoy keeps fiddling with his, all but shoving it in Potter’s face and proclaiming their marriage) so mostly they are dealing with a wary confusion here, nothing even close to the catastrophic fallout should Potter realise how drastically his feelings for Malfoy changed. 

“Seriously, what is wrong with Malfoy?” Potter has apparently decided that Malfoy isn’t capable of giving him the answers he wants (not that Nathaniel can oblige with those either, there are no answers here that Potter would enjoy) and is asking Nathaniel now, as the only medical professional present. And, as a medical professional, Nathaniel doesn’t feel he can answer that question. 

“What is wrong with _me_? What is wrong with _you_?” Malfoy answers before Nathaniel has a chance to subtly steer the conversation to something safer, say, Potter’s health, for instance. Malfoy is hurt, trying to hide it under thick layers of snark and kindergarten insults. Honestly, Malfoy had less problems being offensive when they were both aware of their mutual love and affections. Watching him flail like this, wrong-footed and struggling for something to say hurts more than Nathaniel expected. Potter, however, looks on dispassionately. 

“Well, apparently I’m in the hospital and the only person who seems to care is some annoying git who fancies himself important enough to be some kind of nemesis and won’t leave me be.” The words are cruel, more so if you have the complete picture and know exactly who he is saying them to, and they land perfectly. That hasn’t changed then, Potter still knows just the right words to say, only that now (back then? This is all a bit confusing) he is using it to wound. 

Malfoy jerks backwards, as if trying to escape the words and the pain they bring. It’s futile, of course, their impact inevitable, and they can both watch as aching understating blooms over his face. Malfoy used to be better at keeping up his mask of disinterest, his armour rendered unless by love. 

Potter doesn’t have the patience — or the decency, quite frankly — to let Malfoy regain a modicum of composure. 

“Oh, drop the act, Malfoy. What have you done to Ron and Hermione, why aren’t they here?” Potter zeroes in on Malfoy again, Nathaniel falling back out of his awareness. Malfoy, he must have decided, is the one to blame for all of this, so he is also the one with all the answers. Ironically, in this case Potter is even right, if anyone knows when the two will be here, it’s Malfoy. 

But Malfoy doesn’t answer, finally overcome by the situation, the husband who first didn’t remember him at all and now hates him, the weeks of overgrowing weariness and hope disappointed again and again, fighting tooth and nail against any mentions of euthanasia and clinging to the barest shreds of improvement. This must be even worse, the numbness cultivated over Potter’s coma discarded the second he woke up and leaving Malfoy vulnerable, open to the joy and relief of having Potter back, but also open to the pain and disappointment every new development brought him. 

“Is he going to cry? I — tissues, do you have tissues?” Potter casts his hands around, possibly waiting for Nathaniel to drop the requested tissues into them, and for the first time since waking up he doesn’t sound scornful talking about Malfoy. Panic, Nathaniel is pretty sure, and concern, a certain feeling of being overwhelmed and not knowing what to do. Pretty much how Malfoy must have felt this entire time, then, though probably to a lesser degree. 

“What is going on here? Why am I comforting _Malfoy_ of all people?” Potter mutters to himself, not too low for either of them to hear but clearly not expecting a response as he eyes Malfoy like he is something feral, something his instincts tell him to help and pet while his education insists it’s dangerous and he should get far away. 

Right, as intriguing this all is (seriously, Nathaniel could observe them like this for hours, were he not too well mannered and aware of their respective pain for that) it’s time Nathaniel does his job and act in the interest of his patient. Meaning, they both need a break, some space to order their thoughts and get their emotions back under control. Nathaniel can’t get decent test results when Potter is in such a frenzy, and even if he didn’t pity Malfoy, he would recognise that by now the best thing for everyone involved is some distance. 

It’s not without risks, of course, leaving Potter alone in the wake of such confusion but Nathaniel can’t keep an eye on both of them, and Malfoy looked like he would barely be able to walk. Leaning shakily against a wall, Malfoy doesn’t seem to need much of his help after all. Perhaps he should have stayed with Potter, thrown Malfoy out to gather his shredded dignity together in privacy and tried to guide Potter through processing the impression hailing down on him. 

Yes, that is definitely what he should have done. On his own, Potter stands very little chance of figuring out what is going on, prodding and poking at his memory to yield something to make sense out of what he saw. All he is likely to accomplish in reality is push his soul away again, revert to that blank personality with no memories at all and demolish all the process he might or might not have made to get here. 

While Nathaniel is still trying to find a polite way of ordering Malfoy to stay put and let him go check on Potter, Malfoy solves that problem quite neatly by making it completely, shockingly irrelevant. He pushes himself off of the wall, cards his fingers through his hair in some doomed attempt to tidy it up and straightens his rumpled clothes as best as possible without some ironing charms. He doesn’t look much more presentable for it, but Nathaniel suspects it’s more to calm his fluttering nerves than his appearance anyway. Potter already hates, a few wrinkles in his shirt aren’t going to make it worse. And then, haughty and determined, Malfoy strides through the door, back inside. All Nathaniel does is follow, praying to whoever is listening that they didn’t upsets Potter’s soul too badly. 

“Hello there! Would one of you please tell me what I am doing here? I seem to have some memory problems.” Potter smiles blandly at them, nothing about him hinting that he has any idea who either of them is. 

* * *

There isn’t much that can be done about memory loss. Sure, you can show them pictures and engage their senses, bring smells and noises and tastes that might spark a memory, but in the end, you can really just wait and hope for the best. Malfoy did so much waiting already, waiting for Potter to wake up, to recognise him again, to realise that he doesn’t hate him anymore. Such is the fate of visitors in a hospital, condemned to being the ever-patient watcher, waiting for any changes and praying they are good ones. 

None of Potter’s recent changes have been good, neither for Malfoy nor for his condition. He still doesn’t remember anything, like seeing Malfoy’s shattered face at the one instance he did know enough to recognise him was so terrible and painful that he is unconsciously wary of reliving that. In fact, he is steadily getting worse. There is nothing they can do about it except up the dose of painkillers, pore over his charts and the test results and quietly despair. Someone seriously needs to bring up euthanasia to Malfoy again, much as he is going to hate it. But that is their job, gauge chances and inform about the medical possibilities they have, distasteful and morally wrong as they might be spurned. 

Malfoy didn’t say, but Nathaniel thinks he must have been the teeniest bit relieved when Potter didn’t recognise him. It’s human selfishness all over again, the perception of others and what they, in turn, think of ourselves, how it fits in our lives and how we can deal with it. Malfoy couldn’t deal with Potter hating him, and a tiny voice inside him whispered that he’d rather have an unresponsive husband than one who hates him. Oh sure, if asked he would, of course, say he wants what is best for Potter, even if that means starting over without him, but he also — and possible that one more — wants Potter to match the idea he has of him in his own head. Love is a complicated beast, no right answers and all too easily judged. 

But there is a limit, even for something as greedy as love, and Malfoy might just have hit it. 

Nathaniel used to love listening to their nightly conversations, early on when Malfoy would spill his guts about fears and insecurities, about feeling lonely and not knowing what to do and feeling like he was about to lose his mind, and especially the later ones, after Potter woke up and before the amnesia hit, bickering so well-worn and comfortable that they must have been doing it for years. These days it’s mostly Potter talking, and Nathaniel almost wishes he couldn’t hear his croaky whispers out in the corridor. 

Potter is in pain, horrific amounts of it and resistant to the highest safely administered dose of painkillers and healing charms. Nathaniel doesn’t know if speaking about it brings him any relief or if simply wants to fill the silence and has nothing else to talk about, but after a long day of smiling understandingly and gritting his teeth through more empty reassurances of how desperately everyone is trying to help, how sorry they are that he lost his memory after everything he went through — but oh, he doesn’t remember that, does he? Potter sits through it all, taking great efforts to make everyone as comfortable as possible and not let on what he is suffering, until it all breaks out at night and he can finally share his burden, tell Malfoy about the way his body burns and his mind is restless, searching and torn to pieces, how he feels something is missing and he can’t take a single breath without the absence pressing down on his chest. 

Potter also doesn’t believe that it will get better. As far as he is concerned, this is all his life ever was, foreign faces he can’t name but doesn’t want to upset and the man who claims to be his husband obviously carving himself up on the inside to hide his own pain and wring a smile out of him. If you look at it like that, Nathaniel completely understands that Potter wants to die. 

Malfoy doesn’t understand it, but Malfoy is also too far in denial to understand anything anymore. He denied Potter getting worse, denied his mood dropping, denied the glum atmosphere that seems to cling to the very air lately. He denied everything until he couldn’t anymore, until Potter begged for him to let him die. 

With his denial neatly snapped but his resolve to keep Potter alive by all means necessary not lessened on inch, there was only one thing left for Malfoy to do: wax poetic about the life they had, the future they dreamed up, the love they shared. Anything to make Potter realise that for Malfoy, his life was still worth living. He would talk about falling in love again, even if Potter didn’t get his memory back, about miraculous cures and the magic of their own home returning Potter’s memory. 

It didn’t do him any good, but Malfoy couldn’t stop. So that is what their nights have come to, Potter begging for death and Malfoy pleading with him to reconsider, to trust him, to try. 

Nathaniel doesn’t want to hear it. He knows where this ends, has seen it often enough, and he has no intention of witnessing it again, the drawn-out process of withering away, love turning to resentment and poisoning them both until only bitterness remains and Malfoy no longer knows why he fought so fiercely to keep Potter in his life. He knows what humans are capable of doing to each other, even, or maybe especially, when they are in love, he doesn’t need another example of it. 

“One more day, give me one day to pretend that we are happy and in love and going home tomorrow. Can you give me that, before you — before I let you go?” Malfoy is clutching Potter’s hands, leaning close like they haven’t been in a long time. He isn’t crying, which is surprising given his history, but even tears aren’t endless, eventually every well dries up. 

“One day and then you allow me to die?” Potter doesn’t even hide the hopeful edge creeping into his tone, gripping Malfoy’s hands back and holding his gaze. 

“Yes, one more day.” Malfoy’s voice is hoarse, like speaking is physically painful to him. 

“One more day, then,” Potter agrees, and they shake on it. 

Euthanasia, Nathaniel never thought Malfoy would consent to that. He didn’t think it would hurt this much. 

* * *

“You think you won? Well, think again, catch _this_!” Potter throws something, tiny and glinting in the light and Nathaniel can’t quite — Malfoy snatches the thing right out of the air, shouting in victory as Potter falls onto the bed in dramatic defeat. 

Nathaniel isn’t sure what he just witnessed. He came here to have Malfoy sign the papers concerning his husband’s euthanasia, go over the risks again and such, he didn’t expect the mood to be quite this … exuberant. 

“Excuse me —” Nathaniel regrets speaking up immediately, Potter and Malfoy looking up at him, faces abashed but the giddy little smiles not leaving them. They are acting like children caught sneaking biscuits before dinner, wholly aware they did something they weren’t supposed to but confident about their ability to charm their way out of any consequences. “What is going on here?” 

“A years-long feud over who is the better seeker between the two of us, obviously. Draco thinks it’s him, which is impossible and quickly proven wrong with just one look at our matches back in Hogwarts, but he is also a stubborn bastard who never learnt when to quit, so every now and then he has the grandiose idea of challenging me. I’m afraid we don’t have a certain winner this time, since you interrupted us. Such a shame, it had been going well for him, too.” Potter smirks, words just this side of obnoxious that should make Malfoy bristle but instead only evoke a smirk in return. Nathaniel really walked into something here, he had no idea these two were this competitive. 

“Darling, you threw your _wedding ring_ at me —” Malfoy holds up the shiny thing Nathaniel saw first, indeed a simple golden ring. “— you are getting desperate.” 

Malfoy tosses the ring back at Potter, who easily catches it and puts it back on its rightful place. 

Potter, Nathaniel realises belatedly, should be in bed, stoically suffering through his pain and granting Malfoy his last day. He should also, perhaps more importantly, not remember Malfoy at all and even less so their days at Hogwarts. 

Looking around the room again, it’s pretty obvious what they are doing. Everything is packed up, the room almost returned to its impersonal state except for the suitcases leaning at the wall, both of them bursting with energy and no sign of even such a trivial pain as boredom. The week Potter bargained for is more than up, and it seems he now remembers that. 

“Mr. Malfoy, if I could have a word outside?” Nathaniel asks, because this isn’t a talk he wants with a probably unaware Potter present. 

Malfoy, very much aware of what there is to talk about, gives him a grim nod, drops a reassuring kiss on Potter’s forehead when he makes to protest, and follows Nathaniel out of the door, carefully closing it behind himself. 

“He doesn’t remember. He woke up today like nothing happened, knowing neither how much time passed nor what he did during that time.” Malfoy silences him with a glare before Nathaniel can even gather his thoughts enough to object, so he wisely keeps his mouth shut. “You won’t tell him. He doesn’t need that kind of guilt, not on top of all the rest of it. I will take him home, today, and he will never learn about his amnesia, understood?” 

Nathaniel should have expected this, one last desperate attempt at saving his husband. But it’s not right, they both know it’s not, and even Malfoy will have to accept that. 

“What about your promise? One more day, you said, and this is rather more than you could have hoped for.” Nathaniel realises his mistake too late, when Malfoy narrows his eyes at him and something dangerously cold runs through his veins. 

“Have you been _spying_ on us?” Malfoy stalks closer, fury in his every step as he almost casually crowds Nathaniel against the wall. He isn’t all that tall, some distant part of his mind notices, but the sheer menace exuding him doesn’t care about size. Nathaniel says nothing, because there is nothing he could possibly say to save his skin now and the least he can do is not make it worse. Also, and he suspects that might be more responsible, his throat feels constricted, breathing laboured and shallow and no space left to talk. “You would do well to not tell anyone what you heard. In fact, I think you should forget about it all completely.” 

Malfoy raises his wand and a horrible suspicion climbs up in Nathaniel, the smirk playing on Malfoy’s lips promising him nothing good and those _words_ … he cannot possibly — “Draco! I figured it out!” 

Malfoy lets go of him abruptly, making Nathaniel stagger in his sudden loss of balance, gasping for breath. Granger only spares him a wayward glance and, after making sure he isn’t dying, strides past him to shove some dusty old books at Malfoy, papers with neat scrawling all over them falling out at random. Nathaniel almost forgot Granger left to research Potter’s condition. 

“It’s the elder wand, you see? It takes hold of the caster’s mind and soul, basically possessing them and guiding them to an early grave just like the stone! Harry broke the physical form of the wand, but by then it had already infested his mind, refusing to let go of him until its mission to see Harry dead was done and it could pass on to the next poor sod. The wand chooses the wizard, I suppose.” That … actually, that makes sense. 

Nathaniel didn’t honestly expect Granger's research to bring about anything useful, but this changes a lot of the tests they could do. It’s no solution, of course, far from it, but knowing how a disease started is vital to finding out how to stop it. 

“That is … well, it’s horrifying.” Malfoy looks like he is about to throw up, realisation making its way over his face and leaving him sick. “It’s good to know though. Did you find a cure?” 

“See, that’s the thing. As far as I can see, people never survived being bonded to the elder wand? They usually weren't the master of death though, or quite as stubborn as Harry, so I'm disinclined to give up hope just yet. It’s his soul that’s damaged, which means I have no shortage of books to look through. Which is actually why I'm here, they have an extensive library that I wanted to scavenge for anything that might not be one of the standard titles you find everywhere.” Granger sounds awfully sure of that, as if sheer determination is all it takes to find a cure to a soul that has been half-eaten by apparently _death itself._ Nathaniel decides not to voice his doubts, not when Malfoy is still volatile and holding his wand. There are a lot of emotions currently soaring through him, ideally Nathaniel would morph into the wall and watch the rest from a safe distance. 

“Thank you, Hermione, seriously. I — thank you.” Then Malfoy _hugs_ Granger, and Nathaniel is too stunned by that to do anything but watch as she rushes off in the direction of the library. 

“Did you hear that? We’ll cure him, everything will be fine again.” Malfoy has, against all his feverish hopes, not forgotten that he was threatening Nathaniel into silence, pressing him back against the wall before Nathaniel is done digesting everything Granger told them. 

The wand is up against his temple again, the arm pressing onto his windpipe and it’s like Granger never stopped by. Nathaniel is about to be killed by some over-protective maniac who thinks the best thing for his husband is to be taken home and lied to until that miracle cure is found. Time, Nathaniel needs more time. 

“Potter begged you to let him die, how can you do this to him after knowing how much he suffers?” A low blow, sure, but it lands and Nathaniel is too desperate to care about honour. 

“Harry didn’t know what he was saying, what he was giving up. I would have kept my promise, I _would_ , but he has his memory back and he is so _happy_ — how could I possibly kill him now? We will find a way to cure him, to bring him back his soul and restore his memory permanently, and until then I will just have to make his every day as happy as I can. I’ll find something that lessens his pain, and I’ll figure out how to deal with him hating me and not knowing that we are married. I will bear this burden, for Harry, because I love him and I can’t let him die. Perhaps that’s selfish of me, perhaps you are right and death would be a mercy, but this isn’t your choice to make.” Nathaniel recognises the tone, the rambling honesty, from when Malfoy talked to Potter in his coma. He is serving as a sounding board here, letting Malfoy reassure himself and reaffirming his decision by simply being here and listening, knowing about them. 

Malfoy nods to himself, pleased, and Nathaniel has to say something, can’t let this happen when he knows full well they are both going to break over this — 

“It’s Potter’s choice, too! I will tell him; if you won’t, I will.” Nathaniel doesn’t know what he is saying anymore, anything to get Malfoy off him, panic surging through him and making him struggle uselessly in his grip. 

“No, you won’t, you won’t remember a single thing about either of us.” Malfoy smirking at him is the last thing Nathaniel sees before the world goes black. 

* * *

“I know the food is bad here, but I don’t think the poor salad quite deserves the death glare.” Jamila sits down next to him, nudging him and startling him out of his thoughts. 

“Sorry, what?” Nathaniel blinks at her, trying to piece together what she said through the honey clogging his brain. He feels oddly hazy today, probably didn’t eat enough. 

Jamila sighs, long-suffering and exaggerated in that way that means he missed something very obvious that she doesn’t have the patience to explain to him. It makes him smile, the first comforting thing to happen to him all day. 

“Is this because Potter went home today? Are you seriously moping over having helped someone?” This is familiar too, Jamila’s faint disgust over his passion for people watching, scolding him into at least pretending to be pleased when they leave all healed up and healthy. 

“Wait, Potter left?” The thought is very vague, but Nathaniel _thinks_ Potter only just arrived. It was something gruesome, lots of blood involved, he was assigned to his case. 

“Yeah? With his husband, practically danced out of the doors. Not that I can blame them, I would be happy to go home too, and I'm not even madly in love and walking into my happily ever after.” Nathaniel knows for a fact that that isn’t true, that Jamila lives for this hospital as much as he does and is perfectly content with the absence of romance in her life, and usually, he would tease her for that, but something isn’t right about this. 

“They freaked everyone out when they left, of course. Pretty much every Healer who so much as glanced at Potter’s file was yelling at them to wait and reconsider, that his condition Inst stable and he might relapse. They didn’t care though. You know, I think they can handle themselves, take care of each other. They weren’t right here, in understand that they didn’t want to stay. And even those who didn’t understand knew better than to stand in the way of _Harry Potter_ , so it all worked out rather nice for them.” Jamila is thinking out loud, talking as if Nathaniel should just know all the things she referenced, Potter’s condition and why his leaving should cause such a ruckus. Nathaniel doesn’t, though, he didn't understand half of what she said. 

Did he just forget all about Potter? 

“What was Potter even admitted for?” Nathaniel asks, mostly himself though it’s Jamila who answers. 

“That’s the most interesting bit! Alright, pack your stuff, we are going to have proper lunch and I’ll tell you all the gossip.” Jamila smirks at him, mischievous and excited, and Nathaniel doesn’t even mind that he usually doesn’t care about gossip or that is head still feels fuzzy — he can nerve deny her anything when she gets like this. She will tell him about Potter, Nathaniel will feel better, and then he’ll find someone else to watch and life will go back to usual. 

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to leave some love for the creator if you can! Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/) on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page!


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